


Hope, Logic, and Other Wastes of Time

by pantswarrior



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Illnesses, Medical, Mission Fic, Research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantswarrior/pseuds/pantswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: The Fabrini cure for xenopolycythemia doesn't work as well as the crew of the Enterprise had thought.  McCoy has little time remaining to find a working cure himself - but Spock finds despair quite illogical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is no AO3 warning for "incredibly depressing subject matter", so here's that warning. The story does have a happy ending, but we are dealing with themes of terminal illness and inevitably declining health along the way. (Kink meme requests inspiring it were looking for some character torture, after all.)
> 
> Will also note that there will be some medical inaccuracies - if you know anything about actual polycythemia, the idea of xenopolycythemia being an incurable deadly disease is kind of ridiculous on its own. Further research shows that the Trekverse can't even decide what it is (rare, yet contagious and caused by a virus?). I've attempted to make some kind of sense out of the groundwork that was laid, and did a lot of research into similar _real_ medical conditions, but "I'm a fanfic author, not a doctor!" Also trying to take into account a few centuries of medical advancement helped along by alien societies that are further developed than Earth's; this means that many things which are serious now are not nearly as serious or debilitating in Trek fic.

The treatment was going to be as unpleasant as the disease - he knew that. It wasn't that far removed from old-fashioned chemotherapy, the way it attacked the healthy cells as well as the cells that needed repair, and chemotherapy was as old-fashioned and barbaric nowadays as leeches had been at that point in history. But just like chemotherapy, it was an option that the medical profession had used because they didn't have any better options at the time. As far as Starfleet knew, xenopolycythemia was incurable, terminal.

McCoy had never truly believed that anything was completely incurable, except maybe death itself - and even that was a maybe. If it had been Jim, or Spock, or anyone else aboard the Enterprise, he would have been working around the clock to find a cure. Since it was him, it was pretty convenient that the Fabrini's archives had just happened to contain the necessary information, because he couldn't have managed it.

Still, the weakness and aches and vague, chronic sense of vertigo that endured even after the treatments had run their course made him wish he'd had that luxury. Maybe he could have come up with something better.

But then again, maybe not - some of the fixes he'd thrown together weren't exactly pleasant to endure either. At least they'd worked.

So had the Fabrini's solution, according to the tests. Christine insisted on doing the work herself, both she and Geoff double-checking the results to make sure; they knew McCoy too well than to leave it in his hands.

"Counts are still so close to normal, it's not even worth mentioning," she told him with a bright smile, a week after the last treatment.

"I wouldn't go that far," M'Benga added, but he sounded confident and carefree as well. "This has never been done before, you're still showing some symptoms, and we don't know whether or not it's a permanent reversal in the first place. If you were my patient, I'd recommend regular testing for at least a year before declaring you clear."

"I'd point out that I'm your boss, not your patient," McCoy remarked, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he turned away from the terminal, "but I can't blame you. I'd probably say the same thing to any of my patients. All the information from the Fabrini archives indicates it's a cure rather than a delay, though, and the symptoms aren't unexpected. The compounds are just taking some time to work their way out of my system - I can tell," he added, "because I'm still pissing orange."

M'Benga nodded. "We'll see you again in three days, then?"

"Not a chance," McCoy told him. "I've had enough of sitting around on my ass."

"Doctor," Chapel began to reprove, gently.

He gave her a firm look. "Christine, you've got the results right there in your hand. The counts are fine. You've seen me work in _far_ worse condition than this."

"I have," she agreed, tilting her head skeptically. "But I don't like it."

"You don't want to push yourself too hard," M'Benga added.

"And I won't," McCoy retorted. "I've got a great staff to fall back on if I need it, including you two. But we're scheduled to arrive at 6729e tomorrow, and just in case something goes wrong down there, I'm going to be ready and waiting to deal with it, and that's that. So in that case, why _shouldn't_ I be on the schedule?"

"I suppose," M'Benga agreed, though he looked somewhat reluctant, "that that's a logical argument."

"Great. Want to repeat that to Spock for me?" McCoy asked.

"Not if my license depended on it," M'Benga replied without pause.

"That's what I thought," McCoy muttered. Well, _he_ was the chief medical officer around here, so Spock would just have to live with it. That Vulcan had some funny ideas about the relative frailty of humans to begin with - and McCoy in particular enjoyed proving that they were a lot tougher than Spock assumed.

\---

6729e was a planet that had been discovered a few centuries ago, before the light speed barrier had been broken, which had characteristics indicating that it might be what was now called a class M planet - habitable by humans and similar lifeforms. Further observation had revealed it to be less suitable than expected, but by that time, a probe had been launched from Earth. The development of the warp drive meant that the planet had already been examined more closely in the intervening years, but the probe _was_ scheduled to have arrived sometime within the last few months. It was old-fashioned, the information it would have gathered already obsolete, but the probe itself had a certain amount of historical significance.

That was enough reason for its retrieval, according to Starfleet, and Spock had agreed. The probe's data was insignificant. Proof of the success of the probe's mission, spanning centuries, with only primitive propulsion and guidance technologies, was anything but.

The safest way to search 6729e was by shuttle; the planet's atmosphere was thin, only rich enough to breathe in the lowlands between the mountains and the craters resulting from numerous asteroid impacts. It would be fortunate if the probe was found in such an area. If not, retrieval might prove more tedious, particularly given the frequent flares from the star at the center of the solar system.

Aboard the Enterprise, Chekov was keeping track of the star's activity and the trajectory of nearby asteroids while Spock and his team of mostly science officers were conducting the search. Sensors indicated metal alloys and petroleum-based solids near the edge of one of the largest craters, which was a promising sign, and Spock had the others watching as he guided the Copernicus carefully in a slow, close arc around the mountains and stony protrusions of the planet's surface. The sensors showed they should be almost above it now...

"I think I see it," Lt. Hill said abruptly, standing up to get a better angle through the shuttle's window. "There's a white spot, right there - it could be a reflection."

Spock rose slightly from his seat to have a better look as well, and agreed with her assessment. The ravine was largely dark despite the sun's position, due to the composition of the rocks, and yet... yes - that was most certainly the sun's glare, shining off something reflective. "Excellent work, Lieutenant - it does appear to be an artifact rather than a natural phenomenon." He pressed the transmission button as he settled again, taking stock of the surrounding terrain. "Copernicus to Enterprise: we may have found the probe. I am going in closer to verify."

"Great - I'm glad to hear it," came the captain's reply. "If it _is_ the probe, is it going to be possible to retrieve it by hand?"

"There are stretches of flat, largely clear ground upon which to land, although the atmosphere is thin," Spock reported. "We would require pressure suits and oxygen until descending deeper into the ravine where the object is located, but I believe it to be quite possible." He paused as they made another slow fly-by of the area; this time he could see the dark antique solar panels surrounding the module, gleaming in the light. "Confirmed," he said. "It is indeed the probe. Permission to land and begin the process of retrieval?"

"Yes, let's get it aboard. How long do you think it'll take?"

"Allowing for careful traverse of unfamiliar terrain," Spock said, turning back towards the closest of the landing zones, "and the additional burden of the probe's weight on the return trip to the shuttle, I estimate approximately nineteen to twenty-two minutes."

"Not bad." The captain paused. "Mr. Chekov - is there anything they need to worry about in that area for the next half an hour?"

"Half an hour yes, twenty minutes no," came Chekov's reply. "Another solar flare appears to be beginning, and could cause unsafe radiation levels throughout the area in approximately twenty-four minutes."

"Hmmph." Spock could hear the captain's uneasy exhale. "That's cutting it close."

"My estimate was conservative," Spock assured him. "I believe that our time will be closer to the nineteen minutes than the twenty-two minutes I had allotted, and perhaps even less. Furthermore, perhaps it would be acceptable to beam us back to the ship with the probe once we have reached it, and once the storm has passed, beam myself or another back to retrieve the shuttlecraft."

"All right, sounds like a plan," Kirk agreed. "I'll have transporters standing by; Chekov will keep you updated on the flare's progress."

"Very well - and I shall update periodically on our progress also," Spock replied. "Preparing to land... Copernicus out."

Although the terrain in the ravine was too uneven for a shuttlecraft to land, it wasn't difficult to traverse on foot from just beyond, even in the somewhat unwieldy pressure suits. The four-person team made excellent time, following the tricorders' readings of metal and petroleum further down the slope. There was sparse vegetation as well despite the harsh environment - brown grasses and withered-looking vines sporting dull red bulbs as they spilled down from crevices in the rocks, and Spock took a moment to take stock of them as well. They were reminiscent of some of the desert plants of Vulcan, though there was the question of what these plants might subsist on. There was not enough atmosphere in this area, nor water on the planet, to form proper clouds that might provide them with even sporadic rain. There had been no mention of these plants in past studies of 6729e.

Their objective now was the retrieval of the probe, however, and Spock activated the suit's communicator once they had reached it. "Spock to Enterprise - we have reached the probe. It seems to be in good condition," he reported, watching as his team spread out to have a look. "The descent buffers must have fired as they were designed. The primary module is 1.75 meters high and proportional in diameter; the width and breadth of the solar panels is approximately 1.5 meters each, extending to a wingspan of just over five meters. I do not foresee any trouble with beaming it directly aboard."

"Great, let's get it started," Kirk replied. "Tell me when you're in position."

Everyone involved knew what was to be done, and the members of the away team fanned out, positioning themselves at the extremities of the probe's solar panels. "Spock to Enterprise," Spock called again. "We are in position. The probe is ready to be beamed aboard."

"Aye, I've got a lock," came Mr. Scott's voice, and moments later, the probe began to shimmer as it was caught up in the transporter beam.

"Mr. Chekov," Spock inquired as the probe disappeared. "What is your current estimation of the time remaining until the effects of the solar flare reach the surface of the planet?"

"Thirteen minutes and nineteen seconds," came the immediate reply.

"I can easily return to the shuttlecraft before that time has expired," said Spock. "I recommend beaming up the other members of the away team while I do so - assuming that this is an agreeable course of action, captain."

"That sounds fine," Kirk replied. "Be careful down there, Spock - if you run into any delay, let us know. We'll keep an eye on your location, so we can beam you out as well if we have to."

That was exactly as Spock had expected. "Very well - proceed at Lieutenant Hill's command," he suggested, and started back the way they had come as the three other officers positioned themselves for transport. He kept an eye out just long enough to make certain that they were beamed away safely, then turned his full attention to the path back to the shuttle. It was, after all, more difficult to go uphill than downhill, though the ground was firm, and he expected no significant challenges.

Further up the slope, he again encountered the vines with their red bulbs. The bulbs were made up of several petals, he discovered, for they were beginning to draw back and flatten, opening as flowers and exposing thin tendrils to the thin air and the glare of the planet's sun. "Fascinating," he murmured to himself.

The communicator in his suit chirped. "How are we doing down there, Spock?"

"Progress is as expected, captain," Spock replied. "I should reach the shuttlecraft within five minutes."

"That's good, because Chekov says the radiation's going to reach you in seven," Kirk replied.

"As of yet, there has been no obstacle to a swift return," said Spock, picking up his pace just slightly. "Except, perhaps, for scientific curiosity; there is vegetation at the edge of what could be considered the upper atmosphere. Having observed its state during descent and at present, while it appears to be flowering, I believe it may subsist on the radiation from the solar flares."

There was a quiet, appreciative hum. "That's interesting..."

"Now, I'll admit I'm always telling you that maybe you should stop and smell the roses sometimes," came another voice. "Now's not really the time, though, unless you want to get yourself cooked."

"I am aware of that, doctor," Spock replied. "I would also like to point out that within the controlled environment of the pressure suit, I am incapable of smelling the flowers, if indeed they have a fragrance. I would find that highly unlikely, as the lack of lifeforms on 6729e would suggest-"

"Do you ever _not_ take anything literally?"

Behind the doctor's irritable voice, Spock could hear the captain laughing under his breath. "Keep us posted on your progress, Spock."

"Yes, captain."

At his increased pace, Spock reached the shuttlecraft with more than three minutes to spare. "Copernicus to Enterprise," he said, shedding the pressure suit as he opened a channel from the shuttle's communications systems. "I have returned, and am ready to lift off."

"Excellent - we'll be waiting for you."

Liftoff went without a hitch, though as the shuttle rose into the air, starting back towards the higher orbit in which the Enterprise had remained, Spock checked pressurization and the seals on the airlocks. The air within the shuttle seemed to be growing thin, and he found himself breathing more deeply. The seals and air pressure seemed to be normal, and a quick diagnostic revealed no breaches. Even so, Spock was beginning to feel light-headed.

Quite curious. Unable to account for the difficulty he was having, Spock glanced around the interior of the shuttlecraft, and at first thought that he might be beginning to lose consciousness. But no - at least not yet.

\---

"You can't tell me you didn't miss that while I was laid up," McCoy told Jim with a smirk, from his position behind the captain's chair. Jim's laughing eyes said it all.

"I wouldn't dream of trying," Jim said, with a fond grin. "It's good to have you back, Bones."

McCoy gave him a fond smile of his own. "Good to be back." Even if the light and blinking brightly-colored buttons of the bridge weren't improving his headache any, it was much better than sitting in his quarters with the lights turned down to be watching over the crew, keeping tabs on an away team, and messing with Spock. Especially messing with Spock. He hadn't appreciated being treated delicately, the way Spock had reacted to his diagnosis getting out. That just wasn't how he and Spock were supposed to be, and that kind of thing was the whole reason he'd tried to keep it a secret in the first place.

Shortly after Spock's liftoff, they saw the shuttle approaching onscreen. Everything seemed normal, until Spock raised communications again. "Copernicus to Enterprise."

"Yes, Spock, what is it?" Jim replied.

"I am..." There was a pause. "...Having difficulty breathing."

"Chekov," the captain muttered sharply, but the ensign looked up in alarm, shaking his head.

"The solar radiation had not yet reached the planet's surface - I swear it."

"That wouldn't be the worst of his symptoms if it had," McCoy pointed out, instantly on alert.

"I... I believe... I have been exposed to..." The sound of a dry cough. "There is a strange... black dust. I saw nothing on the suit when I removed it. Yet it is... everywhere."

"Spock, hang on," Jim ordered him, instantly getting up from his seat, hitting the intercom button and turning away. "Scotty, prepare to beam Spock from the Copernicus."

"Aye, sir."

"Just a second, Jim," McCoy spoke up, grabbing the captain's arm as he started for the turbolift. "Spock - this stuff proliferated _after_ you got inside?"

"Yes." The brief reply only served to prove that Spock was in bad shape. "I am... losing consciousness." A fit of coughing. "...I apologize."

"Scotty!" Jim ordered. "Beam him-"

"Hold on a minute!" McCoy interrupted. "Jim, he's contaminated."

"He's _suffocating_ ," Jim shot back, jerking his arm out of McCoy's grasp.

"Scotty, close off the transporter room, make sure everyone in there's got a respirator," McCoy shouted back towards the intercom, even as he followed Jim to the turbolift. " _Then_ beam Spock aboard, and stay back."

"Captain?" Scotty inquired warily.

"...Do as he says," Jim said, his voice tight and tense.

The look he gave McCoy as they got into the turbolift was no less intense. "It's not just dust," McCoy informed him. "If it was _just_ dust, he would have seen it on the suit. Whatever it is that's affecting him, it's reproducing. Probably our environment is making it grow faster than it normally would on that planet's surface - we've got moisture, and air - it could be oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide..."

Jim punched the turbolift's intercom button emphatically. "Scotty?"

"Readying to beam him out now, captain," came the slightly muffled and extremely anxious reply. "Already locked in, here we go..."

The turbolift arrived before they could confirm success, but Jim grabbed McCoy's arm and pulled him out, the two of them racing down the corridor towards the transporter room. "Jim!" McCoy gasped, panting even from the minor exertion. He definitely preferred being a doctor over a patient. Despite his head swimming, he managed to yank open one of the emergency panels outside the transporter room, and reached in to grab two full facemasks, handing one to Jim. "All I'd need is to have to treat _you_ too."

Impatient as Jim was, he nodded and slipped it over his head before activating the intercom once more. "Have you got him?"

"We do, he's in pretty bad shape," Scotty confirmed.

"We're just outside," McCoy told him. "Unseal the door just long enough for us to get in there."

Once the door had snapped shut behind them, both he and Jim went straight to Spock, collapsed on the transporter pad. "Call sickbay," McCoy snapped over his shoulder as they rolled Spock onto his side. Spock coughed harshly; a cloud of black dust came from his mouth. "Have someone bring down a portable sterile field generator, oxygenation system, mouthpiece, and a handful of hypos of tri-ox. Make sure they're wearing masks too."

The black dust seemed to be deposited around Spock's eyes and nose as well, and more black spots were blossoming on the floor in front of him, right before their eyes. "That's what I thought," McCoy muttered, pulling out a scanner. "It's the moisture. Doesn't get much of that where it lives, so it's eating its fill now."

"A creature?"

McCoy shook his head, examining the readings. "Spores. Bet they're from that plant he found so interesting. Probably hitched a ride on his suit, so small as to be invisible to the naked eye. Once in an environment as welcoming as the interior of a shuttlecraft, it started spreading slowly, then got into his lungs. Like a perfect luxury resort in there, hot and humid." He patted Spock's shoulder as the Vulcan coughed up another black dust cloud. "No one in here's going to be able to leave until we've been thoroughly decontaminated and the room sanitized - we can't even take him to sickbay."

Jim nodded slowly, understanding. McCoy reached over and squeezed his arm too, seeing the dismayed expression. "I'll take care of him, Jim. I can't say it's going to be easy, but I'm pretty sure I know what we're going to have to do. You take care of the rest."

Behind the mask, Jim inhaled deeply, and then got to his feet. "Everybody keep back," he ordered the transporter room staff, and went for the intercom. "Someone get a tractor beam on the Copernicus - bring it in, leave the shuttle bay depressurized until I've said otherwise."

At least coordinating that sort of thing gave Jim _something_ to do while McCoy treated Spock, or made his best attempt. Even when Chapel arrived with the equipment, it was a tricky situation, working with only the portable resources. Spock was stabilized and out of danger quickly enough, but he wasn't going to be able to breathe under his own power until they'd managed to clear his lungs of the stuff - and doing that wouldn't be any good until they were out of the contaminated transporter room, or it would just start all over again.

Eventually, after having made a couple more calls to sickbay for a few other things, McCoy had Spock's lungs mostly cleared, and managed to get a face mask on him. The rest could be taken care of in the decontamination chamber, now that he was at least moderately safe to transport. Jim had the corridors sealed off even so, just to make sure that those who had been contaminated due to their presence in the transporter room couldn't inadvertently spread the contamination further as they moved.

Once inside, with the beam sweeping over them, McCoy leaned back against the wall and took a few deep breaths, letting his eyes close. He felt like he'd been awake for days, and he couldn't quite hold back a little moan as he rubbed at his aching head.

He felt a hand on his arm, and opened his eyes again to see Jim regarding him with a cautious smile. "Still good to be back, Bones?"

"Ask me in a couple hours," McCoy groaned, and took one more deep breath before he and Jim knelt beside Spock, now sitting up groggily under his own power, to help him get the mask off.

\---

The worst was over by far. Spock was up and around, moving and talking, and even helping Jim and Scotty work on the problem of decontamination; the transporter room and half the deck were strictly off-limits until they'd done so. McCoy had his staff examine a sample, one he'd extracted early on from Spock's exhalations, and they confirmed it was the moisture that made the stuff spread, not the air. The spores would become inert if they removed all moisture from the area, and from there they could clean up - while contained in biohazard suits, of course. It would be easy enough to tell whether or not they'd gotten it all just by having climate control emit a light mist through the deck afterwards. Same would work for the shuttle, though the suit Spock had been wearing would have to go straight to disposal.

It was still possible that there might be another outbreak before they were through, and McCoy himself had been looking into options that would be lethal to the plant without being lethal to the person whose lungs they'd taken up residence in. Once he was reasonably sure of a formula he'd cooked up to be delivered via inhaler, he sat back and rubbed his eyes. The computer said it was only just past 1700 - the way he felt, it should have been well past midnight.

All in a day's work, though. Even if it had been past midnight, or if he'd not finished and would have to keep working until past midnight, that was just how it was in Starfleet.

But since he _was_ done... "Computer - turn down the lights, fifty percent," he muttered. There - much more comfortable. Not that he needed to stick around in the lab any longer, in fact he should probably give a call over to sickbay with the results, but it had been a long day, and if there were any problems, someone would have called him. It was all right if he just closed his eyes for a couple of minutes, let himself stop trying to focus...

He was startled by the sound of someone entering. A somewhat puzzled voice spoke. "Dr. McCoy, are you unwell?"

Spock. McCoy straightened up, wincing slightly at the way his head spun. "Who is it who nearly got themselves killed today?" he asked, turning in his chair, pointing to a vacuum-sealed test tube containing the young shoots of a vine, with small red bulbs. "These things were trying to set up a greenhouse in your lungs. One good dose of infrared, and you'd have been coughing up petals."

"Indeed. Your advice regarding the smelling of roses seems to have done more harm than good."

"Very funny."

"Do not misunderstand," Spock told him. "You have my gratitude for the rescue, and the safety measures taken to protect the Enterprise. The captain informed me that you prevented me from being beamed aboard at once."

"Given the evidence, it seemed _logical_ to take some precautions," McCoy remarked. "Thought you'd appreciate it."

"I do," Spock said simply. "There was no sarcasm in my repetition of the facts."

"For once," muttered McCoy. "Anyway, you're welcome. ...Something I can help you with?"

"I came to see whether or not you had found an easily-applied remedy, in case our decontamination of the transporter room and the surrounding area is not as thorough as we will attempt to be."

"As a matter of fact, just finished," McCoy told him, turning back around to show Spock. "Didn't take that long to figure out how we could kill the stuff off, but the real trouble was finding a way to do it without killing off the host..."

The chronometer beside the equipment, he observed as he explained to Spock, now displayed 20:24. And he still felt no more rested, even after his unintended nap.

It must have been obvious to Spock, who listened with interest to his explanation of how the treatment he'd formulated would work, but immediately changed the subject as soon as McCoy was finished speaking. "You appear tired," he observed. "The level of the lights and your posture when I entered would indicate the same."

"It's been a long day," McCoy pointed out. "My first day back - and you sure know how to give a guy a warm welcome."

"I assure you, I had no intention of returning with an intruder of any sort." Spock paused, and looked McCoy over with a critical eye. "You have again proven yourself to be a vital component of the Enterprise's crew, doctor; I cannot say that you should not have returned to duty so quickly, but I would recommend, since the immediate danger is now past, that you concede to your body's need for rest."

Slowly and carefully, McCoy got to his feet, stretching. "Why, Spock - you almost sound as if you care."

"I do indeed care," Spock replied. "The outcome of our missions might be drastically different if you, by your own stubborn actions, made it necessary for us to acquire a replacement."

McCoy made a face at him. "Thanks for your support. Anyway, for once I agree," he admitted, reaching over to the terminal to eject the disk with his documentation. "I'll just take this up to sickbay, then head back to my quarters."

"I will take it to sickbay," Spock said, reaching for the disk as it popped out, before McCoy had the chance. "You have done enough for today, particularly considering your condition."

"Oh, don't give me that," McCoy told him. "The xenopolycythemia's gone - all that's left are side effects from that compound they used to treat it. If you don't believe me, you can ask Geoff or Christine to see my records, since you insist on going to sickbay anyway."

"Indeed," Spock told him with a raised eyebrow. "I shall do both."

And secretly, McCoy was a little grateful for that, because he _was_ feeling pretty lousy. Getting back to his room and lying down sounded like a great idea.

Despite his unexpected nap, he fell asleep easily and slept through the night without waking. That was good... but it wasn't so good that he woke up feeling just as groggy as when he'd first laid his head down. Well, no one said this was going to be easy. In fact, he'd assumed just the opposite.


	2. Chapter 2

McCoy was becoming accustomed to the general sense of unease he'd felt since returning to duty - thank goodness. It wasn't anything that should interfere with his work, just a little fatigue, a headache that the regular-strength painkillers could usually banish, and occasionally a bout of vertigo. They didn't last long if he just stood still, maybe closed his eyes for a minute. He knew how to deal with this sort of thing, and he was getting better at it all the time.

In fact, he was fairly sure he was starting to feel authentically better. A week later, he opted against a painkiller for the mild headache, since it was particularly mild that day, and ran another blood test just to have a look.

...The counts were a little higher than they were on the last test, he conceded. But he was feeling better than he had been feeling, and that had to count for something.

The next week, they were higher still, and he puzzled over the results, deciding to run the test again. Same results.

It was possible, he had to admit, that the side effects really _had_ been worse than the xenopolycythemia. The disease hadn't progressed too far yet when they started treatment, and he'd felt significantly worse once it had begun. Maybe his 'feeling better' was really just picking up where he'd left off.

But he _was_ feeling all right, most of the time. He was getting things done in sickbay and the labs, and his staff had finally stopped looking at him like he might break. He'd hated that. There was no way he was going to start that up again unless he was sure something was wrong - especially because they'd no doubt get Jim and Spock on his case again, and that was even worse.

Yeah... he'd just keep this to himself, stay vigilant, and everything would stay normal.

A week later, there was a mishap that led to a couple dozen engineering staff having to be treated for mild radiation exposure, and McCoy just didn't have enough time to run the tests. He had enough _real_ problems to deal with without chasing imaginary ones.

And although the next day was quiet, giving him plenty of opportunity, McCoy considered and then decided against it. He'd been feeling a little nauseated lately, hadn't had a bite to eat all morning... the results might have been skewed if he did the test just then, since he hadn't been fasting before the last tests. And since he still felt lousy, his lunch break was better spent catching a nap than making more work for himself.

The buzzer to his office door awakened him with a start two hours later, but he managed to pull himself together enough to answer Christine's questions, even though he felt worse still.

\---

McCoy still hadn't tested himself. The early symptoms of xenopolycythemia were vague, non-specific - his fatigue and vertigo could have been anything. Maybe even just age catching up with him, and he couldn't do anything more about that than he could about xenopolycythemia. And since he couldn't do anything about either, what was the point of confirming it? If the disease had come back, all a diagnosis would do would be to give him a number to count down from, and he didn't want to spend his last days like that.

Not that he was entering his last days or anything. He couldn't be. He had too much to do, what with all the information being gathered by the ship's crew, and the scrapes they got themselves into while they were chasing it. They'd be lost without him.

Which was why he'd started doing his own research on that Fabrini cure for xenopolycythemia in his spare time. Just in case. The cure had been dependent on organic compounds that occurred naturally on the Fabrini's original homeworld; the Enterprise had had to synthesize it. It was possible that some potency might have been lost in translation - and sure enough, when he synthesized some more of the stuff and analyzed it, it started breaking down immediately even inside a vacuum tube. That was no wonder, since something with a molecular structure like that should have been unstable anyway.

Confirming it gave him a starting point, though, and a couple major questions to answer: First, was the instability a part of the cure, or a factor that made it ineffective? Second, if the instability did make it ineffective, how had the Fabrini stabilized it?

He was fairly sure he'd answered the first question after running a few experiments, and was just about to put his equipment away for the day when a call suddenly came in over the intercom. "Captain to Dr. McCoy," Jim's voice rang out, and it sounded serious.

McCoy stood up, and wound up leaning on the wall a little bit as he made his way over to the intercom. "McCoy here. What's going on, Jim?"

"We just received a distress call from the observatory near M33 - long story short, it's been hit by a meteor."

"A meteor?" McCoy almost scoffed, despite the severity of the situation. "How'd an observatory miss that coming?"

"The quick version involves a gravitational fluctuation of the black hole they're observing," Jim replied. "Anyway, it hardly matters. The point is that large portions of their installation were destroyed, and we picked up the distress call. We've made contact, and determined that nearly everyone is accounted for, relatively safe and unharmed on the emergency evacuation shuttle. However, there are still half a dozen staff missing, including the director, and they're believed to be trapped in the observatory."

"I assume that's not a good place to be right now," McCoy remarked. "So basically, we're going to be receiving casualties."

"Exactly. We're going to need you in sickbay."

"I'm on it," McCoy told him, straightening up with some effort. He took a deep breath - and had to lean on the wall again as a wave of dizziness overtook him.

"Thanks," Jim said, oblivious to McCoy's weakness. "I'm hoping we won't be throwing too much at you."

"Yeah, that would be nice," McCoy muttered. "McCoy out."

The dizziness wasn't passing entirely, but it lessened enough for him to walk without support, unsteadily at first and then straightening out as he approached sickbay. By the time the doors slid open, he was in good enough shape to start barking orders at his staff, telling a couple techs to get up to the transporter room to help with any who couldn't walk. The rest could start up equipment, prepare materials...

McCoy had been a doctor before he joined Starfleet, and he'd been serving on the Enterprise for a few years now; he knew his sickbay and standard emergency procedure like the back of his hand. Even if he was a little disoriented, even if his vision blurred from time to time, the sounds from the biobeds told him all he needed to know in a basic trauma situation like this. It was just a matter of closing up wounds, setting and beginning regeneration on broken bones, and in one instance stopping an internal hemorrhage. Things like that he could do in his sleep, let alone while suffering a little dizziness.

The dizziness was enough, though, to keep him from noticing that Jim was there until he turned away from the last patient whose progress he was double-checking, rubbed at his bleary eyes, and saw a smear of gold standing by the door. "It's looking good," he told Jim, lifting his head and going to stand beside the captain. "Mostly minor injuries, a couple that would have turned deadly or permanently disfiguring if we hadn't gotten there in time. Since we did, I expect everyone to make a full recovery."

"Good," Jim said with a nod, and then paused. "How about you - how are you doing?"

"It was nothing," McCoy said dismissively. "Hardly more than basic first aid."

"I meant in a more general sense," Jim clarified. "You've hardly been on the bridge lately - we've missed you."

"Bet Spock hasn't," McCoy chuckled. "He's asked me multiple times why a doctor needs to be on the bridge."

"Because I value his insightful commentary, and his amusing exchanges with the first officer," Jim replied easily, before growing more serious. "I get the feeling it's been longer than I thought - you've lost weight."

"Maybe I have lost a little weight," McCoy acknowledged, giving Jim a firm look. "You could stand to follow my example, you know."

"Very funny," Jim told him. "The problem is, you can't."

Which was true, and McCoy knew it. He hadn't really noticed the visual effects, but he was aware his clothes weren't fitting as well as they used to, and it was no surprise when he was nauseated half the time. "It's just that damn Fabrini stuff," he explained. "The side effects hung around longer than I would've thought."

"It's been two months," Jim pointed out. "You're still having side effects?"

"It's tapered off," McCoy assured him. "It's just going to take some time before I've gained the weight back, that's all."

Jim nodded, then smiled faintly. "I'd like to further that cause by taking you somewhere for a good dinner next time we're near civilization," he said. "What do you say, Bones?"

"If it's an order from the captain," McCoy replied, with a smile of his own, "I guess I can't refuse." Even though the thought of eating a great big meal, or so much as watching Jim eat one, made his stomach turn.

But it was a problem, he had to admit, and he weighed himself quickly in the lab while he was putting away all the equipment he'd left out. He'd definitely lost enough weight for it to be noticeable, and since he hadn't been overweight to begin with, some of it was probably muscle. Didn't surprise him, considering how weak he'd been feeling. He'd have to do something about that, he decided, and ordered a nice hot meal in his own quarters afterwards. Comfort food; he wasn't up for meat, but cornbread with mashed potatoes and gravy was something he could manage.

Or maybe not. He finished less than half, and was up for most of the night just trying to keep it down. That wasn't going to help with the fatigue.

\---

McCoy made an effort to visit the bridge every couple days or so, since Jim had commented on his absence. Best to try to act normal, and he could always excuse himself after a little while, when he started having to hang onto the back of Jim's chair to keep himself upright. He had some experiments he was working on in the labs, after all. He could even be honest when Spock asked, and say it had to do with that Fabrini cure for xenopolycythemia. It wasn't a common illness - caused by an easily-transmitted virus, but only those with a specific genetic mutation would actually be adversely affected by it - but now that they had the basic premise of a cure, those who developed it in the future would benefit from the process being refined.

And he was definitely going to be working on those experiments. He hadn't tested himself again, but he wasn't going to pretend he didn't know what was going on. He knew exactly what was going on. It had been especially obvious when he started getting that pins-and-needles feeling in his arms and legs again, and the low-grade fever returned. Figuring out why the cure hadn't worked was his only real chance, so he had to be in the labs no matter how exhausted he was after a shift in sickbay.

There was no way he was going to enlist help, of course. He'd been doing well enough, at least in short bursts, to keep anyone from noticing during his shifts. When he started getting a little wobbly, he could just excuse himself and sit down for awhile in his office, or take a long bathroom break. If he ever started feeling funny while he was doing something that required precision, there might be a problem, but so far he'd been lucky. If anyone knew how awful he'd been feeling, though, they'd relieve him of his duties - and Leonard McCoy still had too much life left in him to sit back and wait to die, thank you very much.

Too much life, but he wasn't sure how much that was, especially one day when he woke up facedown on the floor of his office halfway through his shift. He vaguely remembered feeling woozy, saying something to Christine about checking a file... He must have just barely made it before he'd passed out.

Thankfully, he hadn't been out long enough for anyone to come looking for him. McCoy just pulled himself up to his chair and opened the drawer where he'd stashed a few hypos of inaprovaline, leaned back and let his eyes close until he started feeling a little better.

Then he went back to work, because that was what he did.

\---

He'd taken to standing with his arms crossed when at all possible; it kept him from scratching at the ever-present tingling sensations, and plus his hands had started shaking sometimes, possibly due to malnutrition more than the illness itself. They were still too far out for Jim to have fulfilled his promise of getting McCoy a good meal somewhere, and that was fine, because McCoy couldn't keep much down these days without help from some strong anti-emetic. Which he should probably just go ahead and start taking on a regular basis, he had thought, despite it being habit-forming. Better to be alive a little longer and addicted than to just waste away without a fight.

It was definitely a fight, from his point of view. McCoy was _furious_. He hated xenopolycythemia more than anything else he'd encountered out here in space; at least you could _shoot_ Klingons. But this disease - it was going to kill him, and the only weapon he could fight back with was his research, which was growing more and more difficult as the disease progressed.

But he wasn't going to let it beat him. He took the meds, he forced himself to eat, he stayed upright for his shifts and he hid his shaking hands. And in his spare time, he went to the labs, trying to find a way to stabilize the compounds. It didn't make any sense - why was it stable on the Fabrini homeworld, and nowhere else?

One evening, shaky and lethargic from the drugs that _still_ barely kept him functioning even after increasing the dosage, his eyes refusing to focus on the monitors, he broke down over the lab equipment, burying his head in his arms on the table and crying. It wasn't so much sadness, depression over his condition, as it was sheer fury that he couldn't seem to do a damn thing about it, and he couldn't even lean on anyone else for a minute. If he tried, they'd never let him go - and this was _his_ battle. He was a doctor, he was the one who was supposed to be able to beat this kind of enemy.

And yet this time he was helpless.

He let himself be helpless for exactly five minutes, then pushed himself up from the table and steeled himself for another round of experiments.

\---

"...Sitting in the dark, Bones?"

McCoy straightened up with a start, not having noticed the laboratory's door opening. "Ah, sorry - I've got a bit of a headache," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. It was true, and a good enough cover for his posture, propping himself up in front of the monitor. And annoyingly enough, this was one of his _good_ days. "I'd swear that stuff the Fabrini tipped us off about gave me migraines - bright lights don't agree with me these days."

"All right, I won't turn up the lights, then," Jim agreed, leaning against the table at his side. "Though if you're not feeling well..."

"What is it?" McCoy grumbled, looking up at him. His vision was a little blurry still, but at least Jim wasn't swimming. "I'm your chief medical officer, not the other way around."

Jim grinned. "Does that mean you're up to an away mission tomorrow?"

That was a good question. McCoy was feeling a little better today than he had been yesterday, despite the headache, which he could deal with. The headaches, in fact, had just become part of his daily existence; pain was the least irritating of his symptoms. "What sort of mission are we talking about?"

"Just got a call from headquarters on classified channels," Jim explained. "They lost contact with a cargo ship last week, after it changed course to avoid a Klingon ship's sensor range. The new course sent them behind a quasar that was putting out some heavy subspace interference, and it was assumed that that's why they were out of contact - but they never came out on the other side."

Simple enough, but everything seemed a little _too_ simple. "I take it this ship wasn't hauling anything innocuous," McCoy surmised.

"Some of the cargo was innocuous - and then there were the Romulan disruptors." McCoy raised an eyebrow, and Jim continued. "An outpost along the neutral zone foiled a surprise attack - they're trying to keep it quiet for the time being. And in the meantime, they're taking the technology that was captured to a secure location. Or they were. They'd decided against an escort, since it might attract notice."

"So a ship carrying captured alien technology vanished," McCoy summarized. "Since you mentioned an away mission, I assume this means they got a tip."

"Given the last known trajectory and location of the ship," said Jim, "they would have passed near a single class M planet, called Aeda by the inhabitants. They're a pre-warp civilization, advanced to a level approximating Earth's 18th century, so they almost certainly couldn't have brought the ship down themselves. But if there was trouble, it would have been a good spot for that ship to land."

McCoy nodded. "But not necessarily a good place for Romulan weapons."

"Which is why I'd like an experienced medical officer along," Jim concluded. "If you're up for it."

McCoy had to consider it. His health had declined since the last time he'd gone on a proper mission. But he was the ship's doctor, Jim wanted him there, and he was feeling a little improvement over the last couple of days. Or else he was just getting used to it. Either way, he wasn't dead yet, and he sure as hell wasn't going to act like it. "Yeah, I think I can swing it," he said. "Wouldn't want you kids getting into any trouble down there without me." Plus, he could always bow out if he was feeling worse the next day.

Jim smiled. "That's right, you'll keep us in line. So far it'll be you, me, Uhura, and then I was planning on asking Giotto for some recommendations."

"What, no Spock?"

"The Aedans look very much like Terrans. Mr. Spock quite logically pointed out that if we were planning on blending in with the locals, his Vulcan features would require more disguise than ours," said Jim, "and thus it was more efficient for him to remain aboard."

"In other words, he got tired of wearing ugly hats."

Jim laughed out loud. "There may have been something of that in his decision."

"Can't blame him," McCoy muttered. For all their show of animosity, though, he would have liked for Spock to be with them this time - if he went down for whatever reason, Spock was someone he knew they could all fall back on. "Anyhow, you can count me in. When should I report?"

"Nine-hundred, so make sure you get some rest. Standard medkit, and I'll make sure you've got a tricorder." Jim gave McCoy another warm smile and rested a hand on his shoulder, lingering there before straightening up to leave. "Glad you're coming with us, Bones."

"Somebody's got to save you from yourselves." But in truth, McCoy felt a little better with something to do. Something he could even succeed in, he thought, his mood sinking somewhat as he looked over the results on the monitor. If he didn't come up with something soon, it might be his last away mission.

Well, then - better make sure it was a good one.

He went to bed early, after taking his meds and giving himself a little boost with a nutritional supplement rather than a traditional meal - much easier to stomach. And just in case his symptoms grew worse, jeopardizing the mission, not only had he augmented the medkit's usual contents with his own medications, but he'd left a disk underneath with a message, so they'd know what was going on even if he was unconscious.

Possibly he was overthinking it, he acknowledged as he lay in bed, feeling as if the ship were moving all around him. Chances were, they wouldn't find the cargo ship down there anyway, or if they did, there would be some survivors keeping an eye on it. His personal expertise and experience wouldn't be necessary except in a worst-case scenario; they probably wouldn't even need so much as a standard field medic.

If his life to this point had taught him anything, though, it was that worst-case scenarios happened. And that he could pull through them, given enough determination.


	3. Chapter 3

Nine-hundred according to Enterprise time apparently equated to the middle of the night on the part of the planet where they beamed down, where sensors had detected traces of an impulse engine's emissions in the upper atmosphere. At least it wasn't completely pitch-black, as they materialized in a long, gently rolling plain, where the stars gave at least a passable amount of light. All the more reason, Jim had thought, to believe the ship had come down here; an experienced pilot would have steered towards an area like this for an emergency landing.

Jim was a pretty experienced pilot himself, and while the rest of the team scanned the area and kept a lookout, he analyzed the possibilities. "If there was trouble aboard that ship, it wouldn't have come down clean," he noted. "There's the town we picked up on scanners, over that way - you can see the lights. And if we can see them from right here on the ground, I'm sure the crew could have seen them from aboard that ship. Unfortunately, it would have been even easier for anyone in that town to see and possibly hear a ship coming down anywhere near here."

"Captain, I'm reading... some sort of disturbance, about one kilometer west," said Uhura, frowning thoughtfully at the tricorder. "There's a point where you just can't read anything at all - no grass, no living creatures, not even the composition of the air."

"A malfunction?" Jim asked, as the rest of the team swung around to have a look.

"No malfunction, sir," spoke up Riyadi, one of the security officers accompanying them. "I'm getting it too."

"Same here," McCoy confirmed. And he thought he knew what might be causing it. "Those Romulans that attacked the outpost - did they have a cloaking device?"

"That's not how a Romulan cloaking device works," Uhura pointed out.

"...Unless it's a different kind," Jim pondered. "Masking an object in space, if done correctly, _should_ have the appearance of a completely empty void - a pocket of nothingness, to blend in with the nothingness around it. It would only _work_ in space, of course, because a sudden absence of matter inside the atmosphere of a class M planet would stick out like a sore thumb - as Lieutenant Uhura has just pointed out."

"So what would this be, then?" asked Sutherland, another of the security officers. "Did Starfleet capture another prototype?"

"I'd like to think they would have told us if that were the case, but it's possible," Jim remarked, gazing up at the sky as he flipped open his communicator. "Just to be safe, I'd better let them know up above. Everybody get ready to move."

The team put away their tricorders, except for Uhura, who kept hers pointed in the direction of the anomaly, while Jim made the call. McCoy gave in and sat down for a moment as he did so; it was nice that they hadn't beamed down at high noon, when the light would have added to his discomfort, but it was still a little early for a walk.

There was a time, not long past, when McCoy would have thought nothing of a 1k walk. A year past, thanks to Starfleet training and conditioning, he was in good enough shape to run it. This time, he was winded before they'd even made it halfway - and it occurred to him only then, he'd been experiencing this lack of stamina even before the original diagnosis. The disease had been doing a number on him for longer than he'd thought.

No surprise that Jim fell back to nudge him, lowering his voice. "How are you doing there, Bones?" he asked in a low murmur. "If you need to go back, I'll just need a recommendation for your replacement."

McCoy shook his head. "It's going to take me some time to get back up to speed - and it'll never happen if I take it easy."

Visible even in the dim light, Jim flashed him a fond smile, squeezing his arm for a moment. "I know exactly what you mean," he murmured, before quickening his pace to join the security officers at the front.

As they drew closer to the origin of the strange anomaly, they caught sight of it - or so they assumed. It was Riyadi who saw it first, and paused, pointing. "Captain, what do you make of that?"

"That's a good question," Jim remarked. "Uhura, what are you getting on the tricorder?"

"I'd be very surprised if we weren't looking at that cloaking device - or whatever it is that's causing this," she amended. "It's the right distance, the right direction... everything lines up."

"Anything new?"

"No - and nothing old either," she pointed out. "Nothing at all."

"Right." Jim nodded. "Let's keep going, get a little closer. Caution, everyone."

McCoy wasn't sure what they had spotted; he couldn't see a thing. But he was tired, a little dizzy, and it was dark - he was just grateful for the brief moment of stillness to collect himself. He was starting to wonder if he should have come along on this mission, when he was apparently so useless.

But then, they hadn't brought him for another set of eyes, or for muscle. He was there to be a doctor, that was all. They hadn't needed a doctor yet. If they did, it would be a good thing he was there - and in the meantime, he wasn't slowing them down.

As they moved closer, what the others had been seeing was more apparent - there in the dark landscape was an area of deeper darkness, growing larger as they approached. While still distant, McCoy could have attributed it to his dizziness, a bout of seeing spots. If he was seeing spots now, though, that was _some_ spot.

It was like a bubble, they theorized as they approached. A bubble of nothing. Jim suspected that it was pulling in and either absorbing or dispersing all light and energy that touched it, almost like a black hole, but neutral to physical matter. Or so they assumed, though what may lie inside was a mystery.

They stopped a few meters away, spreading out slightly and waiting for orders. Jim paced back and forth, regarding the void curiously, and then bent down, feeling around among the grass and coming up with a small stone. When he tossed it at the void, the stone disappeared - and then reappeared as it was propelled back the way it came, dropping to the ground before them.

"Whatever's in there, Jim," McCoy remarked, now that he'd nearly caught his breath, "I don't think it likes you throwing things at it."

"...No, I don't think that's it," Jim mused. "Not at all." He stepped forward and knelt to pick the stone back up, and tossed it again from that position, underhand from right beneath the curve of the darkness's edge. This time, when the stone reappeared a split second later, it went over his head to land behind him. "Just like I thought," Jim said with a smile.

"Ricochet," McCoy muttered, understanding.

"It's bouncing off whatever is concealed inside," Jim confirmed, turning to pick up the stone again. "And it doesn't seem to have suffered any from going in and out of this field. Uhura, you've got the tricorder - just in case, I'd like to have a scan of this stone, and let's see if I can find another one, just so we have a baseline..." he murmured, feeling around in the grass.

Before he'd managed to find one, something else began to emerge from the field. The security team immediately readied their phasers, and then relaxed an instant later as a young woman appeared, dressed in civilian clothing, hair disheveled and with a tightly bandaged wrist. "Starfleet," she breathed. "Thank goodness. I'm Commander Palmer, I was in charge of this mission. It's been one thing after another, I'm afraid."

"Captain Kirk, USS Enterprise," Jim replied. "They sent us out to find you - what happened? And what is..." He waved his hand vaguely, in the direction of the darkness.

"An experiment. But right now, there are more important things to take care of," Palmer told them, and looked to McCoy. "You're medical - we need your help. I'll explain inside," she told Jim, motioning for him to follow. Jim exchanged a glance with McCoy, then pointed to two of the security officers, motioning for them to follow as well. Jim stepped forward, and disappeared into the bubble of pitch black.

McCoy swallowed his uneasiness and did the same, only to find himself standing with the captain and Palmer beside a moderately sized vessel. "So this _is_ the cargo ship," McCoy remarked. Glancing over his shoulder, he could still see Uhura and the two security officers who had remained outside, just as clear as if there was nothing at all between them.

"I suppose you were briefed on the purpose of this flight," Palmer said, leading them around the back of the ship towards an open bay door.

"Transporting captured Romulan technology, yes," Jim confirmed. "And this is another prototype cloaking device, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it's not Romulan," Palmer explained. "One of our crew was inspired, you could say, by the idea."

"I see..."

"Other ships in the area picked up a Klingon vessel in our path," Palmer told them, as they followed her inside. "A change of course was approved, to hide us behind a quasar. But once we were out of contact, three Orion pirate ships appeared. The Klingon ship was only a decoy."

"So no one from Starfleet would know what became of the ship and its cargo," Jim finished.

"It was only chance that we were the first ship to come by since they set their trap - the Orions weren't expecting a crew trained by Starfleet," Palmer said, unlocking an inner door to a narrow corridor. "We were transporting sensitive material in a minimally armed, unescorted cargo ship - naturally we were chosen for our ability to think quickly and come up with unorthodox solutions if a problem should arise. Matteson was our engineer, and he'd been studying Romulan cloaking devices for years. In fact, one of his hobbies had been trying to develop a better one; he'd taken a different angle than the Romulans, and he could reroute some of the power systems to raise this field around our ship in place of shields. It was risky, but I told him to do it, and it let us slip away."

"But you couldn't get home again," Jim deduced.

"The drain on our engines and internal systems was too much," Palmer said. "We had to land, and once we had, we'd never have reached escape velocity. But I'll tell you the rest in a moment - right now, we have casualties to see to."

They'd reached the front of the ship, and another door was unlocked, opening to an unpleasant scene; three officers lying on the floor of the bridge, pale and bandaged to varying degrees. "Guess that's my cue," McCoy remarked, pulling out a scanner and kneeling beside them. "Rough landing?"

"Quite the opposite," Palmer replied. "Graham's the best pilot we've got, and he brought us in smoothly even with the ship's reduced capabilities."

"Wasn't that hard," said one of the injured officers, pushing himself up weakly; the bandages wrapped around his thigh were soaked through with blood. "The weather patterns here are just like Earth's, and I used to fly shuttles with a third of this ship's power to the moon and back."

"You're not flying _anywhere_ until I get you patched up," McCoy informed him, "so just sit still."

"Then what happened?" Jim asked Commander Palmer.

"We dropped the cloak to come in," Palmer explained, "and the locals spotted us. They were curious enough to come looking, and overpowered our security team outside. Their weapons might be primitive, but they're deadly enough."

"...I'm sorry to hear that," Jim murmured. McCoy glanced away from his patients long enough to see the two of them looking to the other side of the bridge, where he'd vaguely noticed a draped tarp when he came in. Distracted by the sight of obvious patients, though, he hadn't noticed that the tarp was draped in a familiar fashion. McCoy knew the shapes below all too well, having covered them too damn many times himself.

"So that's what happened to everyone?" McCoy asked, putting away the scanner. "I'm reading metal pellets in these wounds, consistent with old-fashioned projectile-based firearms. It shouldn't be hard to get the survivors fixed up, if I can take them up to sickbay."

"We'd appreciate it, thank you," said Palmer. "But there's one more problem."

"I think I know what you're referring to," Jim remarked. "The cargo bay looked empty when we passed through a moment ago."

"As I said, they overpowered the security team," Palmer continued. "They were inside before the rest of us managed to get out there, and they found the case holding the Romulan weapons. The case was locked electronically, and the weapons inside were locked as well, so they couldn't be fired - so I gave the order to fall back. Better that we survive and reclaim the weapons later if we got the chance. But there were so many, we were all wounded."

"And you reactivated the cloaking device," Jim observed.

"Matteson activated it just before he came to help fend them off. As you saw, it doesn't work planetside so well as it does in space," Palmer explained. "Even so, if they can't see in and we can see out, it complicates things for them. The Aedans are curious people - they might have figured out a way to get inside the ship again once they'd left, if we hadn't resumed cloaking. They're hesitant to come inside the darkness; the first one who tried, we stunned immediately and tossed him back out where they could see him."

"Pretty good deterrent," Jim mused.

"With all due respect," McCoy spoke up, "I recognize that there are still unanswered questions, Jim, but do I have permission to take these officers aboard the Enterprise for treatment while you two carry on? I'll need yours as well, of course, Commander."

"Yes, absolutely," Palmer replied, and Jim nodded also.

"Great." McCoy stayed where he was, kneeling on the floor, and pulled out his communicator. "McCoy to Enterprise..."

"I should have mentioned," Palmer spoke up, as McCoy frowned at the lack of response. "Due to the way the field works, communications won't work from inside to outside, or vice versa."

"In that case, transporters are probably useless too," McCoy muttered. "All right, so are we turning the field off, or moving the wounded outside?"

Jim looked to Palmer. "Matteson is dead," she said. "He was the only one who knew what exactly how to manipulate the field. Once it's turned off, we probably won't be able to turn it on again."

"Then we should leave it on, just in case," Jim suggested. "I'll have my chief engineer come have a look at it, see if he can figure it out, and get this ship refueled so we can get it out of here. In the meantime..." Jim motioned to the two security staff. "Lets give the doctor a hand."

Just what McCoy needed - heavy lifting. After all that walking, it was even an effort to stand up, but he managed, getting one of the injured officers to her feet as well. Riyadi and O'Keefe picked up the man who was semi-conscious - one of his wounds had become severely infected, unsurprisingly given the limited materials they had to work with. The man called Graham was mobile enough, despite the state of his leg, and able to hobble outside with Jim and Commander Palmer supporting him on either side.

With that taken care of, McCoy sat down next to his transported patients once they were outside, and tried the communicator again, letting Jim's conversation with Commander Palmer fade into the background. "McCoy to sickbay - we've found four Starfleet officers with severe but treatable wounds. One of them is the commanding officer, but I'm sending up the other three, if you can make sure they're received at the transporter room..."

Quick explanations of the injuries and recommended procedures followed, along with some coordination with the transporter room. It was only a couple of minutes before McCoy was sitting alone, the wounded having been beamed up and hurried off to sickbay by his staff, who had instructions to call back with any questions. Having taken care of his current business, he turned his attention back to the conversation between Jim and Commander Palmer, who'd moved on to discussing the locking mechanisms on the disruptors. "Well, your officers are in good hands," he assured Palmer, when there was a break in the conversation for him to butt in. "I don't suppose you're going to let us take care of that wrist."

Palmer glanced down, as if she'd almost forgotten her injury. "I can manage without help, but there may be enough time," she acknowledged.

"Before what?" McCoy inquired.

"We have to recover those weapons," Jim told him. "From the sound of things, that settlement we saw earlier is probably where they were taken, but they could move on from there if we don't act fast. Commander Palmer recommended we act now, under the cover of night."

"The sun will start to rise in about two hours," she added. "How fast can you fix my wrist?"

"Depends on whether it's a sprain or a break," said McCoy. "Regeneration might take up to an hour."

Palmer shook her head. "Never mind - we don't have that kind of time to spare."

"Then you're going to beam up to the Enterprise and get started right away," Jim told her. "I understand this ship and its cargo were your responsibility, but we've already got several officers down here in top form for recon. Your injury might put you, or us, at risk."

Although clearly reluctant, Palmer nodded, reaching down to cradle her wounded wrist. "It's true enough that I don't have much information or insight that I haven't already shared with you."

"You've already done your job by keeping those weapons out of the hands of Orion pirates," Jim assured her, "and protecting your crew as well as you could manage in a hostile situation. There's just this one last part, and we can take care of that."

Her head turned slightly, and McCoy followed her gaze to the void, the ship hidden behind it. "And my crew?"

"And your crew," McCoy agreed. "We'll have them beamed aboard as well."

Her gaze lingered a moment longer. "All right. I just wanted to be sure everything was covered."

Once she'd been beamed up, Jim set Riyadi and O'Keefe to arrange for the transport of the bodies as well, then looked down at McCoy. "Sure you don't want to head back up too, Bones?"

"Not in a body bag," McCoy replied, raising an eyebrow incredulously.

"You're holding up all right?"

"I'm just fine," McCoy assured him. "Maybe a little reluctant to get up again, after all that walking..."

"And with more walking to come," Jim remarked, offering him a hand up. "If I were you, I'd head back."

"If you were me, we'd be in a lot of trouble," McCoy said, reaching up to take it. "You haven't even been through pre-med."

Jim laughed softly, and then sobered quickly, reaching out with his free hand to steady McCoy when he stumbled forward. "Whoa, take it easy. Are you sure you're up to it?"

Palmer wasn't coming with them specifically because having an injured member put the whole team at risk. McCoy knew this... but his judgment wasn't impaired, just his balance, and he could tell he wasn't so bad off as all that just yet. "I'm fine, just a little tired," he told Jim, freeing himself from Jim's grip. If it got worse, he thought, bad enough to jeopardize his ability to do his job, _then_ he'd beam back up. Up until they encountered a problem, that option was open to him.

Just in case, he stepped aside for a moment, back inside the field and out of view, and administered another of the hypos he'd prepared for himself. Just to make sure.

Meanwhile, Jim was giving Uhura and the remaining two security officers instructions. "We're going to be heading for that village," Jim informed them. "We need to find a case filled with Romulan weapons - and if that case has been broken open, then we need to find the Romulan weapons themselves. Tricorders should come in handy; this planet's civilization isn't as advanced, so we should be able to hone in on the electronic components of the locks. Set your phasers on stun, but we're to avoid notice if at all possible. The planet's inhabitants already know there's something unusual going on, but we don't need to disrupt their lives any further." The rest of the team nodded and checked their phasers, but McCoy didn't bother. His phaser was always set to stun unless he had a really good reason.

They reached the edge of town without incident; there was a barrier of sorts, made of wood, presumably to control access, but it was low and easily climbed. There was no need to go to one of the gates, which they had already seen were staffed by guards with firearms. McCoy was pleased when he landed on his feet on the other side without another stumble, though he did need to hang onto the wall to pull himself upright again. So far, so good.

The tricorders' readings were leading them towards the center of town, towards a building of brickwork that stood taller than those around it. A sign atop it most likely indicated what it was, but the marks upon the sign were an unfamiliar language. Jim's whispered guess, judging by the size and placement within the community, was something like a city hall. And if that were the case, they might have to be very careful about security.

Sure enough, as they made a careful circuit of the building, hiding in the shadows of others, they found armed guards blocking every door. There was no way they could get close enough to look in the windows, to get a clue of the building's layout or a glimpse of what they sought. The tricorders' readings continued to point to the case being somewhere inside the building, however, and Jim had to admit at last that they had very little choice.

"Kirk to Enterprise," he murmured into his communicator, while they huddled beside an adjacent building. "We're going to have to sneak into the building where those weapons are being held. Maintain radio silence until further notice... and have transporters on standby to get us all out of here at my command."

"Captain," Uhura spoke up. "We're not all going to be sneaking in, are we?"

"There are too many of us," Jim agreed. "Sutherland, Gonzales, you're with me. Uhura, you and Bones... first and foremost, you're going to provide a distraction."

"We are, are we?" McCoy muttered. "So what kind of distraction are we going to provide?"

The objective, of course, was to get the guards away from one of the doors, and they didn't have to resort to any sort of modern technology to accomplish something like that. The plan was to pose as an ordinary couple, albeit wearing unusual clothing for the particular culture they were visiting, and to pretend there was an emergency. McCoy was all too willing to be the victim, in this case, and after backtracking a ways down the street, chatting with Uhura none too quietly as they doubled back, he let his wobbly legs do exactly what they'd been wanting to do for the last half hour and give out underneath him. Uhura played her part just as convincingly, letting out a frightened exclamation. "Oh! What is it, what's the matter?" she asked urgently, kneeling beside him. "Leonard, can you hear me? Leonard! Just hold on, I'll go get help!"

It was a dirt road, dusty but a lot better than lying on concrete, McCoy thought as he closed his eyes for a moment, listening to Uhura's footsteps as she ran off. "It's my friend - he just collapsed all of a sudden," he could faintly hear her telling the guards. "Please come with me, please help him!" The lower register of the guard's voice was harder to make out, but McCoy again heard Uhura pleading. With a sigh, he made himself open his eyes. He was enjoying being horizontal a little too much, and it wouldn't do any good if he really _did_ let himself go unconscious.

He closed his eyes again, though, when he heard three sets of footsteps starting towards him. Jim would be making his move now, McCoy supposed. "There," Uhura was saying. "I don't know what happened - he seemed just fine, and then..."

They were almost right on top of him, and McCoy let himself shake his head faintly, moaning. "Are you all right?" Uhura asked, kneeling beside him. "What happened?"

"I... I dunno," he mumbled, putting a hand to his head gingerly. "I just started feeling really dizzy..."

"Can you sit up?" Uhura asked with concern, then looked to one of the guards. "Here, help me get him up..."

The guards, however, were not cooperating. "A northerner," one observed.

"...Beg your pardon?" McCoy mumbled, peering at them curiously.

"I had heard of no northerners in town," the man continued.

"And what are the two of you doing out past curfew?" the other guard inquired.

"Curfew..." McCoy repeated. Just their luck, they'd landed in a nanny state.

"An acquaintance of ours invited us to dinner tonight," Uhura explained quickly, making a show of helping him sit up. "We got to talking... I guess we completely lost track of the time, and once we realized, we started for home at once."

"What was the nature of this gathering?" the first guard asked.

"Well, it was just personal matters, a meeting among friends, you see..." Uhura gave McCoy a meaningful glance he almost missed, and then proceeded to strike the guard with a firm elbow to the gut as she stood. Having had very little in the way of warning, and not being particularly sure of his agility at the moment, McCoy's offering to the unexpected melee was to throw himself in a tackle at the other guard's knees, bringing him to the dirt.

Neither of the guards had a chance to reach for their large, unwieldy weapons before Uhura and McCoy had drawn phasers and stunned both of them. Having done that, McCoy sat back, heaving a heavy sigh as he put away his phaser. "Hmmph - a 'northerner', they said," he remarked. "That's a first. Wonder if I should be insulted."

"I'm sure they didn't know any better," Uhura teased.

"At any rate, _that_ should keep them distracted for a while."

"And even better," Uhura pointed out with a playful smirk, straightening out her stunned opponent on the ground, "now we have uniforms."

"Don't get too excited - Jim told us to stay put," McCoy reminded her, even as he helped her drag the man towards a nearby building.

"It'll be much easier to stay put if we blend in," she pointed out. "I think the coat, scarf, and hat should be enough..."

It didn't take long to wrestle the two men out of a few outer garments, and once they'd slipped them on over their Starfleet uniforms, they returned to the door the two men had been guarding. "Too bad we can't let Jim know our position," McCoy murmured. "It would be good for him to know where he could go if things get hairy."

"At least we're in a good position to help if anything goes wrong," Uhura whispered back, and McCoy nodded, falling silent.

The mention of a curfew explained just _how_ silent it was in the middle of town at the early hour, McCoy thought. Everything was dark and still and peaceful... until there was a loud bang, and then another. It sounded like the discharge of old-fashioned firearms, and it was coming from inside. "Jim," he murmured worriedly, catching Uhura's eye for a moment before they turned and rushed into the building.

Following the sounds of a gunfight, they headed down a hallway. A set of double doors swung aimlessly, having been thrown open, allowing the flashes of phaser fire interspersed with the firing of the natives' projectile weapons to illuminate the hallway outside. There were footsteps nearby, running and both McCoy and Uhura whirled to fire at another pair of guards who had also come to investigate. The noise and commotion were enough to make McCoy's disorientation even more confusing, but he didn't care; he had to make sure Jim was all right in there.

It was easy enough to spot where Jim and the security officers were, once McCoy had pushed his way through the doors. It was some kind of storage room, or maybe a vault, given the security, and the phaser fire was mostly originating from behind one large crate. More guards, possibly having been stationed inside, were firing back, but apparently their weapons took some time to reload. McCoy and Uhura were in a good position to fire at those who were obvious, and then dove to the ground to avoid the shots from another guard who popped up from behind a row of barrels. From the cut-off shout just afterwards, McCoy thought someone got him, but he was too busy trying to reach Jim to pay much attention.

"Bones?" Jim exclaimed, jerking his phaser towards McCoy instinctively as he ducked behind the crate as well, then lifting it away when he realized who was under the wide-brimmed hat.

"Let's just say our distraction left a couple guards _really_ distracted," McCoy muttered as Sutherland and Gonzales made room, taking occasional shots around the sides of the crate. "What happened?"

"Guards inside the room," Jim told him. "I'd guessed there might be - good thing, because they didn't give us much of a chance to think about it."

"Uhura and I got a couple on the way in. Didn't get a clear look at how many there were."

"One less now," Gonzales reported, drawing back for a moment.

"Good. There's a rhythm to it," Jim remarked, turning back to McCoy. "It takes them a second to reload, so we just have to wait for it... and watch our backs, because we're attracting the wrong kind of attention."

"Well, you got ours too," McCoy pointed out.

"Feel free to jump in," Jim invited him with a smirk, and lifted an arm to draw a shot, then rose up for earnest to fire at the guard who'd just emptied his weapon.

Uhura was lending a hand from somewhere too, and before long, the gunfire had tapered off enough for her to dash over to them without attracting any enemy fire. "The weapons are somewhere in this room," Jim murmured. He glanced around at the wooden boxes and barrels. "...I think we'll know what we're looking for when we find it. Spread out and look - but be careful. There might still be someone lurking in here, or more on their way."

The officers stood warily, each keeping a lookout in a different direction, but there was no motion elsewhere in the room. Jim gave them a nod, and they started to fan out to search.

As for McCoy, he'd mostly reached the limits of his capacity for action, and instead of helping them search - four sets of eyes should be enough in a room this size - he decided to have a look over the stunned guards, just making sure they were all doing all right. Stun setting shouldn't have done any serious damage, but it was a different planet, different humanoids... you never knew. Plus, it gave him an excuse to spend most of his time sitting, as opposed to walking and lifting things.

Everyone he'd checked seemed to be doing all right, when he was interrupted by the sound of a phaser firing. "Jim?" he called into the sudden stillness.

Jim didn't say anything for a moment, and when he did, he didn't seem to be talking to McCoy. "...Where did you get that?"

"I think you know," came a reply in an unfamiliar voice. "You have them too, after all. Did you also come from the sky?"

McCoy peered around the corner of a stack of boxes that had hidden two of the guards from view. Great, just what they needed - one of the natives had already gotten his hands on a phaser.

"I... don't think you understand the significance of what you have there," Jim told him. "If word got out that you had a... device like this... Wars have been started over lesser objects."

"I would expect so," said the man. "A gun that can fully disable a man with a single glancing blow, yet he'll recover in only a short time. And this..." McCoy narrowed his eyes as the man reached up to turn the dial. "This increases the power, doesn't it? I haven't tried it on a person, of course, but it had interesting results on other objects."

If he'd turned it all the way up, the phaser could vaporize someone, leaving not a trace. From the look on Jim's face, McCoy suspected that was exactly what the man had done. And it was aimed straight at Jim.

"Tell me what's in the box we recovered from your flying machine," the man told Jim.

Jim hesitated only a moment. "Nothing but food," he said. "It's a box of rations. You're wasting your time."

"You wouldn't have come all this way to get back a box of rations," the man reasoned. "What's really in the box? Or will I have a chance to test this gun on a living creature after all?"

"...All right," Jim conceded. "It's our-"

He was interrupted by the man jerking the phaser suddenly towards Sutherland, who had raised his own phaser. "Don't try anything funny. Now what were you saying?"

"Maps," Jim stated. "It's a box of maps. We need it in order to find our way home."

"And where is 'home'?"

"Somewhere... very far away. In the mountaintops in the furthest reaches of the land," Jim lied.

"And that is why you have machines that fly?" the man inquired. "So you can reach your mountaintops?"

"Something like that, yes."

"And yet you need maps in order to find your home? Although the mountains can be seen from far off?" The man eyed Jim suspiciously, tilting the phaser back towards him. "I think you're still lying."

"I am not lying," Jim said firmly.

"What is in the box? Or would one of the others be more willing to tell me...?" the man asked, tilting his phaser towards Uhura.

The room was dark, and McCoy had been mostly hidden behind the boxes. This couldn't be allowed to go on much longer, he decided, and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to banish the dizziness and the shakiness so he could focus, so he could aim...

His eyes were not cooperating, but he took a shot anyway, and got exactly the second-best result he'd hoped for - the man was startled by the phaser fire, and spun to aim at McCoy's hiding place. That left him open to shots from Sutherland and Gonzales, both of whom had their phasers at the ready.

"Nice shooting, Bones," Jim sighed, kneeling to take the phaser from the unconscious man's hand.

"Theirs was," McCoy observed, waving a hand towards the security officers from where he still knelt beside the boxes. "Mine wasn't so hot." He was _really_ starting to feel the effects of too much exertion. ...He realized, with a stab of regret, that this was probably going to be his last away mission. He'd barely held out this long, and if his condition worsened, he _was_ going to endanger the rest of the team.

But this mission, at least, appeared to have been successful. "It was good enough," Jim told him, loosening the ties around a particular crate. "...And ladies and gentlemen, I think we've found our Romulan disruptors."

McCoy pulled himself to his feet as Jim opened the crate, revealing a shiny metal box within - a far cry from any of the other containers in the storage area. Jim flipped his communicator open. "Kirk to Enterprise - we've found the weapons. Prepare to beam it, and us, back to the ship." He lowered the communicator and shot a weary smile at the other members of the away team. "I think I can speak for all of us when I say I've had enough of this planet for the time being."

As far as McCoy was concerned, he was all too relieved to rematerialize in the transporter room, the mission over and done with. No one had been injured on the mission, the injured who had been rescued were already receiving treatment, and that meant he had plenty of time to head back to his room, dose himself, and sit down for a while. Assuming he was permitted, of course. "Free to go?" he asked, turning to Jim. "I think I need to take a breather."

"Sure, you're dismissed," Jim told him. "I'll need you to sit in on the mission report, but I wanted to take a breather myself first." Then Jim gave him a smirk. "That's a good look on you and Uhura, by the way."

McCoy rolled his eyes, removing the hat; he'd almost forgotten he was still wearing the stolen guard's uniform, and no wonder he was having trouble with his peripheral vision, with that thing on. "You're welcome to borrow it, if you think it'll make you popular with women."

Jim grinned and took the hat McCoy offered. "If we ever take a vacation down there, I'll give it a shot."

Before McCoy had even had a chance to scoff, a transmission came through the intercom. "Chapel to Dr. McCoy - thank goodness you're back, we've got a situation in sickbay."

So much for that moment to relax. "A situation?" McCoy asked, heading for the console. "What kind of situation are we talking about?"

"The bones aren't mending as they should," Chapel reported. "Everyone who was down there on that ship isn't responding to standard treatment."

"Son of a _bitch_ ," McCoy groaned, and pushed off the console he was leaning on, hoping the momentum would at least get him to the door. His peripheral vision wasn't improving as much as he'd hoped with the removal of the hat. The coat and scarf were removed in the turbolift, and another hypo from his medkit administered. With any luck, it would start to work before he got to sickbay.

By the time he'd arrived, the vertigo was mostly gone but his vision was still fuzzy around the edges. Good enough, he thought to himself, and tossed the uniform into a corner, left the medkit on a counter. "So regeneration isn't working," he repeated, heading straight for the closest biobed with Chapel at his side. "Is it doing anything at all?"

"Dr. M'Benga's running some tests now to find out what exactly we're looking at."

"I assume it's not instrument failure?"

"Everything seems to be checking out normally."

"Anything else odd, any further abnormalities?" McCoy asked, even as he looked over the biobeds' readouts.

"What exactly is the problem here, doctor?" Palmer spoke up. "What's happened to my crew?"

"We're trying to figure that out, Commander," McCoy assured her. "So far, I'm getting the impression it's not an emergency situation, just an inconvenience. _Were_ there any other abnormalities, nurse?" he asked again.

"Bone density seemed to be somewhat diminished to begin with, but aside from that, nothing noteworthy."

"Hmm..." McCoy headed back to the terminal at his desk. "Anything that's _not_ noteworthy?"

Everything was logged in the computer, but it was too much reading for McCoy to deal with at the moment - already his head was splitting again. Christine's verbal summary didn't turn up anything obvious, except for minor anemia, which wasn't too unusual given that they'd been stuck down on that planet for awhile with only basic rations. It did, however, give McCoy some ideas, and after speaking with M'Benga in the lab, he thought he'd pinned down the cause.

They were still running tests, remodulating one of the regenerators at different frequencies when Jim showed up with Spock. "Everything back to normal?" Jim asked.

"No," McCoy said bluntly, not looking up from the machine. He'd finally gotten his eyes focused on the damn thing, and didn't want to have to start over. "But I like to think we're getting somewhere. How about you two, why are you down here?"

"We need some information from Palmer and her crew," said Jim, gesturing to the biobeds.

"Go right ahead," McCoy told him dismissively. "I've got some things to fill you in on too, when you're done. Short version is, don't let Scotty and his team spend too long inside that ship. I doubt it'll cause problems in the short-term, or we'd all be showing it, but long-term, there may be some drawbacks to that hacked cloaking device."

Having finished remodulation, McCoy looked up in time to see Jim nod thoughtfully. "Spock, let Scotty know - I'll go have a chat with Palmer."

Remodulation didn't seem to be having much effect, unfortunately. Even after Jim and Spock had gotten their information and gone, and the medical team had tried ramping up the intensity to double, the broken bones were showing only mild improvement. Nothing to be done for it, McCoy decided reluctantly, and chose to offer his patients another option. Just as he'd thought, nothing deadly, but definitely an inconvenience.

He was just administering a dose to the last of the crew when another message came over the intercom. "Bones, are you busy?"

"I won't be in about ten seconds," he grumbled, turning towards the intercom. "Or will I?"

"We'd like to get the official report started."

Just as he'd figured. "Don't suppose you could hold off until tomorrow."

"We had considerable contact with a pre-warp civilization," Jim pointed out. "I'd like to get everything logged as soon as possible - and besides, you said you needed to fill me in on something."

"I did, didn't I...?" McCoy rubbed his eyes. Checking the chronometer, it occurred to him that he had a pretty good reason to be tired out, since he'd been on his feet almost continuously for about eight hours. Running on empty, too. He hadn't had an actual meal that morning, and dietary supplements weren't exactly something to live off of. None of this would have been so significant a problem in years past, but it wasn't something he could manage now.

McCoy sighed. "I can be there in five, Jim." There was no sense trying to get Jim to postpone it for an hour, or two - that wouldn't give him the time he needed. What he really needed was to take more of his meds, sit down and actually eat _food_ , and then get some sleep. Putting it off for another hour wouldn't hurt.


	4. Chapter 4

"We beamed down near those coordinates, and Lieutenant Uhura almost immediately picked up an anomaly a short distance to the west - it was as if existence of all matter or energy in that area had entirely ceased, according to the tricorders."

The mission log meeting, as mission log meetings went, was so far not unusual in any way. The captain began with a summary of the orders they had been given and their preparations, a list of those involved. It was necessary, but not particularly interesting to one who was already aware.

Spock was already privy, he assumed, to nearly everything that would be said by those who had accompanied the captain on the mission, and was simply there to observe and record. At the moment, he found observing the doctor to be far more interesting than listening to what the captain was saying.

Dr. McCoy had not taken part in an away mission for a long time - he'd left the ship very seldom since his diagnosis with, and subsequent cure from, xenopolycythemia. Spock was aware that the doctor had suffered side effects, and his physical condition had suffered as well. There had been moderate activity and stress involved in the mission, and upon returning, McCoy had been called to sickbay to defuse some sort of unusual situation, leaving him little time to rest. Certainly his posture suggested that he had exhausted himself, as he leaned heavily on the table, eyes mostly closed. But in a non-extreme case of over-exertion, Spock thought, the subject would generally begin to show signs of recovery when allowed to relax and sit quietly for a time. Dr. McCoy, however, seemed to be slumping lower and lower in his chair as time passed. Perhaps he had not slept well the night before, Spock supposed, and was finding it difficult to stay awake.

The captain had turned the log over to Mr. Scott for the moment, who was giving an explanation of exactly what Matteson had done to generate that strange cloaking field. "It's not perfect," Scott was saying, "but it's on the right path, that's for certain. I'd say it's worth exploring further, and I second Commander Palmer's request for a posthumous commendation for the lad."

"I agree," said Kirk, "but I'm not so certain it should be further explored. Dr. McCoy seemed to imply there was something dangerous about that cloaking field, though at the moment he didn't have time to elaborate." He turned to the doctor. "Would you care to do so now? ...Dr. McCoy?" he repeated, when McCoy did not immediately respond. And then, quieter, "Everything all right, Bones?"

"Eh, yes, right," McCoy muttered, sitting up straighter all of a sudden. "The cloaking field, ah... well... 'm pretty sure it's responsible for the ineffectiveness of our regenerators on the wounds sustained by the ship's crew. The effect was similar to... uh, long-term exposure to certain types of radiation... tissues losin' their ability to repair themselves. Can't say I'm surprised, thought it was a little fishy that something could keep energy from penetrating, but not matter - they're all tied together, y'know, that's how the universe works..."

Spock observed that the doctor was slumping again, little by little, as he spoke. Furthermore, his words were becoming somewhat slurred and unclear.

"None'f'us showed any sorta effects after goin' in an'out..." McCoy mumbled, rubbing at his forehead as if it pained him. "But those officers were in there for days. Think it was jus' pr'longed 'sposure. Could be safe in short bursts..."

Spock wasn't the only one who noticed something seemed strange about McCoy's mannerisms. "Thank you, doctor," said Kirk, slightly wary, and lowered his voice again, leaning closer across the corner of the table. "Are you feeling all right?"

"T'be honest, 'm not," McCoy admitted, his head resting in his hands. "S'okay, jus' tired out..."

"Are you sure?" Kirk asked again. "We can take it from here, if you'd like to head back and get some rest."

"Probably a good idea, thanks," McCoy mumbled, and started to get up.

"So let's move ahead," Kirk told the rest of them, though Spock clearly saw that the captain's eyes kept flickering back to Dr. McCoy - not quite betraying his concern in his expression, but certainly in his preoccupation. As for the doctor, he was relying upon the table to help him stand, and moving slowly, his head lowered. "The Aedans had taken them by surprise initially, and despite having reenabled their cloaking field, several of their officers were killed by their projectile weapons," Kirk continued.

Spock followed McCoy with his eyes as the doctor gingerly let go of the table, starting for the door.

"Those who survived managed to secure the ship," the captain reported, still eyeing McCoy as well, "but not before the box containing the Romulan weapons had been captured. They were all wounded, and in such few numbers, not in any position to try to recapture their cargo."

McCoy paused, weaving, and pressed a hand to his forehead again, then to his mouth.

"After having secured medical attention for the survivors," Kirk said, not even pretending anymore that he wasn't watching McCoy as the doctor reached out to steady himself on the wall, "I opted to take a portion of the away team to... Bones, are you all right?"

"Dr. McCoy!" Uhura exclaimed.

McCoy had lost his balance entirely, and Kirk, having half-risen already, hurried around the corner of the desk; Spock was closer, however, and managed to move quickly enough to catch the doctor as he fell. "Bones," the captain murmured, reaching out to grasp McCoy's shoulders even as Spock carefully secured a hold on the doctor's limp body. "Someone call sickbay," Kirk told the others present, and Uhura rushed to the intercom. "My chief medical officer has just collapsed," he stated in the direction of the recorder. "It is unknown whether or not the mission had anything to do with it, but either way, this log will be resumed later."

Once he'd turned off the recorder, Kirk returned and knelt beside McCoy, where Spock was carefully laying him out on the floor. As far as Spock could tell, McCoy was entirely unconscious. "What's wrong with him, Spock?" Kirk asked.

"Unknown," Spock replied. "I do not believe it had anything to do with the mission, or you and the other members of the away team would also be showing symptoms. I have seen no indication of ill health from anyone but Dr. McCoy."

"I can verify that _I_ feel just fine," Kirk murmured, gazing down with concern. "And that he was having some trouble during the mission - he claimed he was just out of shape. But he's been back on the ship for hours, and as far as I know, he hasn't been doing anything physically strenuous in that time."

"It is possible that he could be suffering from exhaustion," Spock observed, his hands lingering for a moment as he checked the doctor's pulse - erratic - then replaced his hand at his side. To Spock's mind, it was logical that seeing the normally expressive doctor so unresponsive was rather unnerving. "However, I do not think it to be likely. The logical course of action is to have the medical staff examine him in hopes of finding the cause."

"Spock..." Kirk's hand landed upon Spock's arm, causing him to look up from McCoy. The captain's expression was clearly worried now, even afraid, as he met Spock's eyes. "Side effects shouldn't have lasted this long..."

Spock, naturally, had had the same thought. Dr. McCoy had been running a great many tests related to the Fabrini's cure for xenopolycythemia. "The logical course of action is to have the medical staff examine him," he repeated.

Kirk nodded, withdrawing his hand only to take hold of McCoy's. "I know."

Dr. M'Benga was currently overseeing medical personnel, and he arrived promptly, conducting a superficial examination and turning up very little of use. He could, however, report that what he was seeing in McCoy was nothing at all like what he had been seeing in the patients who had spent days inside the cloaking field. "I can say with confidence that these are two entirely separate issues," he told the captain and Spock.

"All right - so what _is_ this particular issue?" Kirk asked.

M'Benga put the scanner away. "...I haven't verified anything, of course," he stated, looking down at McCoy, who had not responded at all despite the attention and occasional attempts at mild stimulation. "And I doubt I'll be able to before we've moved him to sickbay and run more advanced tests... but I could make an educated guess."

"I wonder if it might be the same educated guess the captain and I have made," Spock remarked.

"Very likely."

"Guessing doesn't do him or us any good," Kirk muttered, lifting one of McCoy's arms to his shoulder. "Let's get him to sickbay."

\---

McCoy didn't particularly want to wake up. Semi-consciousness wasn't his idea of a good time, but he was somewhere comfortable, somewhere cool and soft, and waking up was something of a struggle these days. He didn't think he had anything to do today - he'd had that away mission already, so he didn't have to get up for that... unless it had been a dream... but he'd set an alarm, so even if he had dreamed it, he would wake up when he needed to. And currently, he didn't need to. He could just stay in bed.

He was awake enough already, though, that it occurred to him before long that there might be a day, not far off, when he wasn't capable of doing much besides lying around in bed. And dammit - that day wasn't going to be today. Today, he wasn't going to let that disease win. Today he was going to come out on top. Even if his stomach turned itself inside out in the process, he acknowledged as he struggled dizzily to sit up. The vertigo was bad enough he couldn't even see straight, and moving was going to make it worse.

Something pushed him back down before he could get far, however, and he was pretty sure it wasn't xenopolycythemia that had a hand on his shoulder. That would be all he needed - a physical manifestation of an incurable disease to make his life even more irritating. But there was already a physical manifestation of something who made his life irritating, and...

The question then would be, why was Spock in his quarters? But then again...

"My body might not be cooperating, but my mind's still sharp as it ever was," he mumbled. "I'm not in my quarters, am I, Spock?"

"If you cannot tell," came the reply, "then I believe that sickbay is the proper place for you at the moment."

"'S what I figured," McCoy mumbled, and let himself lay back, closing his eyes. Of course it was sickbay - he could hear the biobeds. "'S comin' back to me... I guess I didn't make it out of that meeting. So tell me, Spock - just how much did I embarrass myself?"

"Your emotional reaction to having lost consciousness, thereby postponing the recording of the mission log, is entirely up to you, doctor."

"Very funny," McCoy groaned, putting a hand to his head as if he could stop it from moving. Problem was, it _wasn't_ moving. "Or should I say, very Vulcan?"

"Indeed. I can assure you that no one present found it amusing, or otherwise entertaining."

"As a matter of fact," another voice put in, and McCoy recognized it at once, "everyone was quite concerned. None of us knew what was wrong with you."

McCoy sighed faintly - there was no getting around it now. "I guess if I'm here, you do now."

This time, Jim's voice was closer, and more accusatory. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"After how you reacted last time?" McCoy retorted tiredly. "I didn't want you fawning all over me, treating me like I'm made out of glass. Besides, I hadn't tested myself for months - I wasn't one hundred percent sure myself, and I didn't want to be. It wouldn't have made any difference to my approach, since all you can do is treat the symptoms, try to hold it off just a little longer."

A strong hand gripped his arm, pulling his hand away, and McCoy blinked up at Jim in surprise. "And you went on that mission anyway, knowing you were in bad shape?"

"I wasn't in _this_ bad shape before the mission," McCoy replied. "Obviously I pushed myself too hard."

"We didn't allow Palmer to join us because her injury could have endangered the rest of the team," Jim pointed out. "What made your case any different? How many lives did you endanger with your carelessness?"

"Jim..." His tone may have been irritable, but Jim's eyes told the whole story, as they often did - he was hurt. Horribly wounded. "This is why I didn't tell you," he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

"So you could get away with acting recklessly, risking our fellow officers' safety?"

"Listen," McCoy muttered faintly. "I probably deserve the chewing out, I'll admit, but the volume's a little overwhelming right now. Is Christine nearby?"

"Right here," she spoke up, from a little further away.

"Nurse, there's a hypo of inaprovaline in the medkit I left on the counter," he told her. "Already prepped and measured."

She murmured something affirmative as she turned to get it, but Jim was not nearly so sympathetic. "You had medications prepared _for yourself_ in the medkit?"

"Where else was I going to carry them, in my phaser?" McCoy breathed, pressing his palm against his forehead. That hypo couldn't arrive fast enough.

"You knew in advance this would happen?"

"Captain." It was Spock's calm, deep voice that gave him a reprieve from Jim's anger. "It should be noted that if the doctor knew he had a medical condition which might cause him some difficulty, it would be logical to bring the appropriate medications along on an away mission. Knowing Dr. McCoy, I do not believe that he would have brought his medications at the expense of any usual, more universal medical supplies."

"That's not the point," Jim snapped. "If you were that bad off, you should have excused yourself from the mission."

"I do not recall, in your recounting of the mission, any instance of Dr. McCoy endangering himself or others," Spock put in again, as McCoy felt the touch of the hypospray against his shoulder, heard the hiss as it was administered. "As a matter of fact, captain, you seemed pleased with his performance, even voicing admiration for the way Dr. McCoy had conducted himself after an absence from such missions."

That seemed to put Jim at a loss, and as the medicine began its work, McCoy opened his eyes again to see that same wounded look on Jim's face. Wounded, and entirely helpless, as he just stared at McCoy. "Damn it, Bones," he murmured, turning away. "...I'll be in my quarters if anyone needs me, Spock."

McCoy wasn't sure whether to speak up and stop him or not, and still hadn't made his decision by the time Jim had gone. He just sighed, closing his eyes again and settling back. At least he was a little more comfortable now. "Thanks, Christine," he murmured.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked.

There were certainly other symptoms that still bothered him, but they were the least of what was really bothering him. "I take it you ran some tests."

"We had to." Her hand landed lightly on his arm. "Geoff and I had already guessed as much, even before you collapsed. When you're working with us, day after day, it was hard not to notice that something was wrong."

"Nothing gets past you," McCoy muttered. "Just what I'd expect from the finest medical staff in the fleet."

"We just..." Chapel's voice faltered for a moment. "Since you were still able to perform your duties, and you weren't saying anything... after how you reacted last time, we decided not to say anything either. Some of the blame falls on myself and Dr. M'Benga," she said, turning away. "If there are to be reprimands, Mr. Spock, then I suppose we're just as deserving."

"If I am correct in my understanding of the chronology of the matter," Spock replied, "there is no cause for a reprimand for anyone involved. Until this evening, no one had confirmed that Dr. McCoy was suffering from any sort of physical affliction, including the doctor himself. Therefore, there was nothing to report but mere speculation - and a reprimand for failing to report anecdotal suspicions would be quite illogical."

Chapel breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir." McCoy was sure she knew as well as he did that this was another case of Spock twisting a situation that fell into a regulatory grey area to suit his own current preferences, but neither of them was likely to complain about his selective use of logic.

"The captain's just mad," McCoy agreed, patting her hand weakly. "Once he calms down..." It occurred to McCoy just what Jim was probably going to have to do once he calmed down, and his heart sank further. "Well, he'll calm down," he finished. "Thanks for your support, Christine. Even if it's over, you gave me a little more time, and I appreciate that more than you know. And don't you go and pass my appreciation on to Geoff," he added, giving her a little smile, "because I can do that myself. Today may have been a little rough, but I'm not on my deathbed."

"Of course not," she replied with a smile of her own, but her eyes lingered a little too long, a little too bright.

McCoy hated getting those looks from anyone, but fortunately Spock rescued him from that look, her from a frustrated rebuke. "Nurse Chapel," Spock said. "Might I speak to the doctor alone?"

"Certainly," said Chapel, looking back to McCoy for a moment. "Are you sure there's nothing more I can get for you in the meantime?"

"When I'm done here, I'll write up a list of what I've been using to manage the symptoms," he said. "Just in case another instance comes up where I can't administer it myself." She nodded and looked away hurriedly as she left. McCoy couldn't exactly blame her.

On the other hand, maybe it wasn't so much a rescue from those kinds of looks, because despite Spock's lack of obvious expression, there was a grave look in his eyes that was usually wasn't there. "Dammit, Spock," McCoy sighed. "You've never shown pity for anyone, so don't start now."

"Regarding the captain," Spock stated. "He is not angry so much as afraid."

"Don't you think I know that?" McCoy pointed out. "Who is it who's studied the psychology of human emotions?"

"As a matter of fact, my life since joining Starfleet has been a constant, neverending study of the emotional reactions displayed by humans."

"This should be an interesting study for you, then," McCoy muttered. "The progression of grief over someone who's not actually dead yet, and their complete lack of gratitude for the sudden outpouring of love and consideration."

"I had a different study in mind," said Spock, and - oddly enough - inched his chair closer to the bed, in what appeared to be familiarity. "You had said on multiple occasions in the past several months that you were running a series of experiments that had to do with the Fabrini cure for xenopolycythemia."

"Yeah, to find out how to make it actually cure xenopolycythemia," replied McCoy. "I've figured out why it didn't work, but I'm still working on why it apparently worked for them. Or rather, how they managed to keep it in a form that would work - it's not biological differences between our species, but a molecular limitation."

"I would appreciate the opportunity to go over your logs," said Spock. "It may be that a second pair of eyes may spot something that yours did not."

"You may be the scientific genius," McCoy reminded him, even as he reached for the mobile terminal next to the biobed, "but your focus is too broad. You don't stand a chance at understanding biochemistry the way a specialist does."

"I concede that my medical background is not equal to yours," acknowledged Spock. "Nonetheless, I wish a chance to review the material."

"As much as I would like to gloat about you admitting there's actually something I'm better at than you, I suppose I don't have that luxury at this point." McCoy called up his logs and tilted the screen towards Spock. "If you're even half as good as I am, you'll see the main problem right away."

Spock nodded. "I had noticed when I first discovered the formula in the Fabrini's database. I assume from your statement that it is not a fluke of chemistry, and it is indeed as unstable as it appears."

"Make it in open air, and it combines with the nitrogen - or the oxygen, in a pure O2 environment, which was the second thing I tried - and becomes useless. Make it in a vacuum, and it starts separating itself into its components immediately," McCoy confirmed. "Even when there's nearly instantaneous injection, most of it's already broken down too far to adhere to the necessary cells."

Again Spock nodded, looking over the logs thoughtfully. "And you have already attempted many of the experiments that I had immediately considered."

That just didn't sound right to McCoy. "'Many', Spock?"

"...All of them," Spock conceded, in that not-quite-grudging Vulcan way he had. McCoy's pleasure in this concession was shallow and short-lived, however. "And a few that are so absurd that I would never have thought to make such an attempt."

"Just goes to show you don't know as much about medicine as I do," McCoy muttered. "Besides, I've been trying everything that comes to mind. ...Don't have much choice."

"You did have a choice," Spock observed. "You could have informed-"

"You saw how Jim reacted," McCoy interrupted, before Spock could even start. Spock wasn't _sounding_ accusatory about it, but McCoy knew him well enough to know he wouldn't. "I saw how he reacted last time - and you too. Spock, both of us know Jim wanted to push me into retirement upon diagnosis."

"I would not have counseled you to do so unless you were unable to perform your duties."

"But you couldn't have kept it a secret from Jim," McCoy told him, pressing a hand against his aching head. "You two know each other too well - and I know you both well enough to know it."

Spock was silent for a moment. "Jim _is_ intending to remove you from active duty."

"That's what I figured," McCoy muttered. "Can't exactly say I don't deserve it, or that it's not a good idea at this point."

"It was a difficult decision for him, but I agreed that it was logical."

"I'm _not_ unable to perform my duties, Spock," McCoy said, though with resignation. He was tired of defending himself - and just plain tired overall. "My primary duties are in sickbay, and I've done just fine in sickbay. It was an away mission _plus_ a problem in sickbay that pushed me to collapse today. Most CMOs don't regularly go on away missions, and I'm still the best surgeon this ship has got."

"I do not disagree," Spock said. "My opinion, as a matter of fact, had nothing to do with your skill as a medical officer."

"Do tell," McCoy grumbled. "You know I'm always _thrilled_ to hear your opinions."

"My logic, which I did not share with the captain, was as follows," Spock began. "If you are removed from active duty, all your energies, though reduced, can be put toward further research into your condition and possible cures thereof."

No responsibilities but his research. That made sense, as much as McCoy didn't like the idea on principle. "And what if someone with my experience is needed in sickbay?"

"Dr. M'Benga is also skilled, though he does lack your particular ability to intuit hidden complications," said Spock. "And if for some reason you _are_ desperately needed, assuming you would be conducting your experiments in the Enterprise's laboratories, you would be close at hand. There are no regulations prohibiting inactive personnel or even civilians from providing medical assistance if the situation requires it."

"True," McCoy acknowledged. The idea of being locked out of the decision-making in medical was still frustrating, but at least he wasn't being shut out entirely, and there was nowhere better to conduct such experiments than the Enterprise's labs. "I guess I could live with that."

"There is one more condition which must be met," said Spock.

"Not that I have much choice, once again," McCoy remarked. "What is it?"

"I ask permission to participate in your experiments, and that I be given access to your logs of the same."

"Now, Spock," McCoy said, raising an eyebrow curiously, " _you're_ still going to be on active duty. Don't you have better things to do than play lab assistant with me?"

"I am Vulcan," Spock replied. "I value both life and knowledge. Although my knowledge is not as specific in the medical field as yours, I consider the pursuit of further knowledge, as well as perhaps finding a cure for a deadly affliction, to be time well-spent. My Vulcan physiology requires very little physical rest besides; I am capable of performing my usual duties and also assisting you."

"Of course." All of this justification, because Spock just couldn't bring himself to admit it. But then again, McCoy would have been disturbed if Spock had. His situation wasn't that desperate just yet, even if he had woken up in sickbay. "Fine. In that case," McCoy told him, keying in the appropriate permissions on the mobile terminal before closing the file, "would you care to join me in about fifteen minutes over in lab seven?"

"In fifteen minutes," Spock pointed out, "It will be 2103 hours. If you are cleared to leave sickbay, and your intention is to leave sickbay, then I will escort you to your quarters for rest."

"Spock, I'm all right," McCoy groaned, starting to sit up. It wasn't true, and they both knew it, but the reason McCoy hadn't realized it was so late was because he felt this lousy nearly all the time - this was, for him, normal. "I certainly can get to my own quarters by myself."

"It was not an offer," Spock stated, and reached out to set McCoy's legs back onto the bed as soon as he swung them over the side. "You lost consciousness once already today. It would be wise to take precautionary measures."

"All right, all right," McCoy muttered, settling back irritably. "Get Nurse Chapel over here - and if we're going to be talking about my health, tell her she might as well bring a hypo of terakine with her."

\---

After escorting Dr. McCoy to his quarters, Spock had another visit to make. "Come in," came the response to his request for entry, uncharacteristically quiet and subdued, and Spock did so. Inside the captain's quarters, Jim was sitting alone, gazing aimlessly down at his hands resting upon his desk until he looked up to Spock. "You were there for a long time - how's he doing?"

"He has been released, and I escorted him to his quarters," Spock replied. "He had no difficulty walking under his own power... and even before we had left sickbay, he had regained his usual, irritating demeanor."

That got Jim to crack a smile, if a faint one. "Good. I hope to hear plenty of arguments out of him tomorrow. And for... however long he can keep it up." Jim hesitated. "How long ago was it, when he said he had about a year?"

Spock paused, and although he had not been invited, he sat anyhow, on the corner of the captain's bed. "Jim," he began, "xenopolycythemia is not in itself a lethal condition. Standard polycythemia is often asymptomatic, merely a risk factor for other severe health issues, and those who have it may live for years without knowing. The progression of xenopolycythemia is faster and defies the standard treatments, thus the risk of an untreatable stroke, heart failure, or other lethal incident is higher than average, and increases with the passage of time."

"So we don't really know how long he has," Jim murmured. "We could have lost him today." He sighed softly, leaning back in his chair to regard Spock with wry amusement. "For a moment, I thought you were him, you know. Showing up with a bottle and an unspoken prescription for some comforting conversation."

"Drinking alcoholic beverages would be exceedingly unwise at this stage in Dr. McCoy's illness," Spock observed.

"And this conversation is about as far from comforting as you can get," Jim added. "But it's better I know. ...It's always better to know than to be left in the dark."

"He understands that the decision to keep this information from you was hurtful," said Spock. "However, if I am understanding his explanation correctly, it seems that when faced with the end of his life, he desired to live it to the fullest for as long as he was able. I find that surprisingly logical."

"Logical, not surprising. It's not that I don't understand that," Jim admitted. "But I have the Enterprise and her crew to consider. I can't place a single one of them in danger without reason, and after what happened today... I don't see that I have a choice - I _have_ to relieve him."

"I still agree with your decision," Spock told him. "And after he and I spoke at length about his reduced capabilities, we also came to an agreement regarding his role aboard the Enterprise."

"What kind of an agreement?"

"There are currently few ongoing research projects for which I personally am responsible," Spock said, "and none of them require my expertise as head of the science division. There are other qualified officers who could perform the necessary tasks in my stead - if I may have your permission to reassign said tasks, in favor of myself joining Dr. McCoy in his own research into xenopolycythemia."

Jim had taken to staring down at his folded hands again, but at this, he looked up. "His own research... That's right, he said he was working on some kind of experiment."

"He said, in fact, that it had to do with the cure for xenopolycythemia which the Fabrini had provided," Spock confirmed. "It had not occurred to me that he might have a reason besides scientific curiosity and stubbornness to be spending so much of his own time on the matter."

"His stubbornness is excuse enough," Jim agreed, a glimmer of hope beginning to dawn in his eyes.

"After having discussed the matter with him, he is willing to be relieved of his responsibilities as chief medical officer, in favor of concentrating his efforts on finding a true cure for his affliction. With your permission, I would like to assist him."

"You have it, of course," Jim said without hesitation. "Is he close to finding that true cure?"

"As of yet, I have only had a cursory look at his research logs," Spock replied. "He did not seem overly confident when we spoke, but it may be that he has overlooked something which I will not."

"Between the two of you, I'm sure you'll be able to cover everything," said Jim. "Make it your top priority, Spock. You're still my first officer, you're still head of sciences - but whenever you're not needed to fill those roles... I don't need to tell you," Jim finished, more quietly. "If my focus hadn't been in areas other than science, I'd be joining you."

"To command a starship, a captain is required," Spock noted. "Science and medical personnel are assigned to each starship to deal with matters such as these, beyond the captain's areas of expertise. I believe McCoy would put it this way: 'You do your job, Jim, and let us do ours.'"

As Spock had expected, that brought a smile to the captain's lips. "Yes, I believe that's exactly what he'd say."

"If I might make a further suggestion," Spock began, and Jim nodded. "Although I am hopeful that Dr. McCoy and I will determine what can be done to reverse his condition, his health _is_ precarious, and may deteriorate rapidly with little warning. If we are unsuccessful in formulating a cure in time, I would note that you will have more than adequate time to accustom yourself to being without him, and to grieve the loss. I recommend that you do not spend your time doing so while he is still with us."

Jim closed his eyes, again nodding. "I wasn't upset about him hiding it from me," he murmured.

"I am aware of that," said Spock. "So is he."

"He's resting now, I suppose, or he should be," Jim murmured, leaning forward on the desk, resting his head in his hands. "I'll go and see him tomorrow. ...I have to anyway."

Although Spock chose to resist emotional reactions, and to quash them when he sensed them arising in himself, Jim and Dr. McCoy were his two closest companions, both highly emotional beings; it was difficult to keep his own emotions from being affected by the deep and conflicted feelings that were so evident in both of them at present. He considered only a moment before he stood, stepping forward to rest a hand upon Jim's slumped shoulder, a gesture of solidarity. He knew Jim, an intensely tactile individual, would appreciate it.

Indeed, Jim sighed faintly at the touch, and lifted his left hand to grip Spock's forearm. He knew Spock as well as Spock knew him, and so grasped him for only a few grateful moments before relinquishing Spock's arm and looking up.

Because Jim knew him, Spock knew he could speak freely. "I will be here," he said. "To share in this experience with both of you, regardless of the outcome."

"I'm glad," said Jim, understanding. "Selfish as it may be - but I'm going to need you."

Spock simply nodded, leaving his reciprocation unspoken.

Later, rather than retiring to his room, Spock went to laboratory seven and called up McCoy's files, as well as those acquired from the Fabrini's databases. Although it was late, he remained awake until he had finished examining every file in detail, some more than once.


	5. Chapter 5

When McCoy woke in the morning, he felt... well, it passed as a normal morning nowadays, at least. He was going to require his usual medications before he could attempt something to eat, and then he began to dress for his shift in sickbay - until he recalled what had happened the day before. There was no point in dressing for work, he acknowledged, even if he hadn't formally been relieved of duty just yet, but he did have to check in with his staff. Or his former staff, rather.

Just to have it all down, once McCoy had thrown on a shirt, he sat down at his terminal over breakfast and began to dictate a list of his current medications and the dosage, just like he'd told Christine. When he was done, it looked a lot longer in review than it had seemed to be when he'd just been administering the stuff as needed, and that was enough to kill any appetite he might have had remaining. Even so, at least it was done, and he _had_ managed to eat a little. He forced himself to eject the disk and stand despite the continued fatigue; it was time to go to sickbay.

And yes, he had to tell Christine and Geoff - he knew that a couple of them were habit-forming. Under the circumstances, he didn't think it made much difference, and they decided they agreed. If those were the doses he needed, that was what he would get.

"Are you up to talking to the captain?" Christine asked, after they'd pretty much gone over everything medically relevant. "He asked us to let him know if you came in again."

"I'm not coming in for treatment," McCoy pointed out. "No need to inform him just because I dropped off a disk - it's hardly an emergency."

"No, but I believe in this case he merely wanted to know when you were up and about," M'Benga replied. "He has some things to discuss with you."

"I can just imagine," McCoy muttered, and then forced a wry smile. "Congratulations, Geoff."

"I take no pleasure in this unexpected promotion," M'Benga said seriously. "It's an honor, to be certain, but I'd rather have both of us overseeing a ship's medical team. Your absence will leave us at a disadvantage."

"Not that much of a disadvantage," McCoy assured him. "You'll do fine. Just remember to _feel_ your way through things when you have to - sometimes I think you spent too much time around those damn Vulcans when you were interning." But perhaps not _too_ much, because that got a faint smile.

"I'll let the captain know you're here," Christine offered, heading for the intercom.

"Better yet," McCoy advised her, standing up, "let him know I'm on my way up to see him. My feet are just fine, thank you - neither one of 'em in the grave just yet."

He was medicated, he was fed, and he was rested. He was therefore quite irritated when he stepped onto the bridge and found Jim looking at him warily. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble, I could have come to-"

"Jim, I'm no worse today than I was yesterday morning when we set out on that mission," McCoy told him firmly. And now that he'd already made a fairly public scene, he didn't care who knew. "So I have a terminal illness - the fact that now you know it doesn't mean I've suddenly become an invalid."

Around the bridge, a few heads turned, not to stare at him in surprise, but to avoid exactly that. "Doesn't mean I'm contagious, either," McCoy remarked, raising his voice.

Uhura, at least, wasn't afraid to look at him. "Doctor," she began. "It's just that... the news, it's... it's difficult."

"No one's more aware of that than I am. I'm a doctor - how many times do you think I've seen people react to a bad diagnosis? I know it's difficult," he pointed out. He did manage to restrain himself from pointing out that it was far more difficult for _him_ than for any of them, at least.

"I'm sorry," Sulu spoke up seriously. "I think I can speak for all of us here when I say..." He shrugged. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't worry about it," McCoy muttered. "If anyone's got something they need to say at all, you can think about it for awhile - I'm still here for now." Oddly enough, Spock wasn't, but a moment's thought told McCoy he probably had an answer for that one, and he turned back to Jim. "So I hear you needed to talk to me."

"Yes, in private," Jim suggested, rising to escort him back to the turbolift. "We have a few matters to discuss."

"Not that they need much discussion," McCoy observed, once they were inside and on their way to one of the conference rooms. "Even if Spock hadn't made it clear last night, it would be pretty obvious what your intentions were."

"Even so, officially, it needs to be said." Jim paused. "I'm sorry, Bones."

"No, I understand," McCoy said, resigned. "You don't have a lot of choice when it comes to something like this... I suppose it was just time."

"Time," Jim murmured, as the turbolift reached its destination. "A time for every purpose under heaven, yes... I don't know where our universe lies in relation to heaven, but I can't see the purpose in this."

"That's our universe for you," McCoy muttered. "Sometimes it's utterly senseless."

"Bones..." They'd just entered the conference room when Jim turned to face him - and just... looked at him. And kept on looking at him.

"Don't give me that sad puppy-dog expression," McCoy finally said, averting his eyes slightly. "How many times do I have to say it? I'm still here."

"Bones," Jim murmured again, reaching out to take hold of his shoulders. His hands squeezed tightly for a moment, then caressed more gently, comforting. "The first thing I need to say is that I'm sorry. About the whole situation, but I want to directly apologize for my behavior yesterday."

"It's all right, Jim," McCoy told him. "If I'm familiar with typical responses to stress, I'm _especially_ familiar with yours."

Jim nodded. "And the mission... I don't know why I didn't see-"

"Because I was hiding it," McCoy replied. "I wanted to go on." He fixed Jim with a look just as serious as the one Jim was giving him. "Thank you for letting me."

Dropping his hands to his side, Jim sighed, turning half away. "I shouldn't have let you," he said under his breath.

"I'm still glad you did," said McCoy. "I'm a Starfleet officer. ...For another thirty seconds or so, at least. I guess we'd better get down to business," he acknowledged.

"You're right," Jim admitted. "Understand... this is difficult for me too."

"I know," McCoy told him. "But I've been through worse than being discharged. With honor, I assume."

Jim looked up again, shaking his head. "Not quite. Lieutenant Commander Leonard McCoy..." he began, despite the shocked look from McCoy, "on the advice of Dr. M'Benga, you're being placed on temporary medical leave."

The stunned feeling McCoy had felt at Jim's first words turned quickly to incredulity. " _Temporary_ medical leave, Jim?"

"Spock said he'll be assisting you in your research," Jim said. "I'm sure the two of you will find a cure."

He looked so matter-of-fact about it... McCoy shook his head, even though it kind of felt like kicking a puppy. "Jim, I've had no luck at all so far, and I'm out of ideas."

"That's why Spock will be helping you, he's full of ideas."

"He told me last night I'd already tried everything he would have tried."

"So he'll think of some more ideas," Jim insisted.

"Jim-"

" _Temporary_ medical leave," Jim repeated, taking hold of McCoy's shoulders again, and this time holding firm. "You'll be back in no time."

Clearly, Jim wasn't dealing well with the prognosis, McCoy thought. Stuck fast in the denial stage. ...But on the other hand, what with everyone looking at him with pity, even McCoy himself was having trouble believing he was still alive. This was much better, he decided, and chuckled a little to himself as he ducked his head. "...Thanks."

"I'm just going to come out and say it, Bones," Jim said earnestly. "I need you."

McCoy shook his head. "M'Benga will do just fine," he assured Jim. "No matter what happens, the Enterprise and its mission will go on."

"I don't need a ship's surgeon," Jim told him, more firmly. "I need _you_."

Closing his eyes, McCoy smiled faintly and nodded. "I understand. Jim, you know that I've always fought for the lives of all your officers - this one's no exception."

"See that he isn't." Jim squeezed again, and released him with a fond smile. "I think Spock's down in one of the labs already - I'm sure he'd appreciate your presence."

"I'll get on it," McCoy agreed, starting back towards the turbolift.

"Just don't push yourself too hard," Jim told him. "If you need a break, take it. We'd rather not see you in sickbay until you're back in uniform as well."

McCoy had to grin a little, though the likelihood of that was statistically pretty low. "My thoughts exactly."

Spock was, indeed, waiting for him in laboratory seven. Though he wasn't waiting at all, McCoy discovered upon entering, finding Spock peering through a microscope. Spock looked up at his entrance, giving him a respectful nod. "Dr. McCoy," Spock greeted him. "I believe that I have determined a new possibility to examine."

"Seriously?" McCoy couldn't help but feel a little more hopeful, after that conversation with Jim.

"Although you do indeed excel in medical knowledge," Spock stated, "you lack knowledge of certain other areas, such as the history of interplanetary propulsion systems."

"I'm sure that has _some_ bearing on what you're doing," McCoy remarked, glancing over Spock's shoulder.

"The Haberites, a civilization with whom the Federation made contact a decade ago, had only just achieved faster-than-light capability," Spock said, peering through the microscope again. "Their standard propulsion, however, was powered by ditrellium mitrosite - which is similarly unstable to the Fabrini's compound, though far more volatile. There was an unfortunate accident shortly after their development of faster-than-light travel, due to the fuel cells igniting upon one of their ships dropping out of warp for the first time in another system - which is what led to the Federation contact."

"But I take it they found a way to stabilize it," McCoy reasoned.

"Not as such, but it was determined why the material had no such volatility in the solar system where they originated," Spock explained. "Their sun's chemical composition was somewhat unusual, and emitted a rare form of radiation which arrested the molecular breakdown."

McCoy understood immediately. "I already tried exposing it to several kinds of radiation, all different wavelengths - you saw my notes."

"As I said, the particular sort of radiation emission present in the Haberites' sun is rare, seen only in a handful of unusual stars," Spock said. "Our instruments are not calibrated to produce such radiation - but I have recalibrated them."

That made McCoy grin in spite of everything. "What do you know - we might just find a use for you here after all."

"As of yet, I have not successfully synthesized the compound," Spock noted. "There are many possible configurations I have yet to try, however."

"Is it just that station that's recalibrated?" McCoy asked.

"I did think it logical to recalibrate this one as well," Spock said, indicating the station across from his.

That, McCoy thought as he started around the counter, was just what he would have expected from Spock. "In that case, it'll take us half as long."

"Indeed," Spock agreed.

McCoy thought he just might be feeling better already.

\---

Despite Spock's new lead, the next round of experiments turned up nothing. Nor did the next. Days passed with no progress whatsoever - or worse yet, a moment of something that looked like progress but never panned out. There were arguments - since it was him and Spock, it was inevitable there would be arguments - about the continued focus of their work; McCoy was willing to abandon the Fabrini method and just look for something else, while Spock insisted that if the Fabrini had documented it, there must be a way for the compound to become a viable cure. The problem was that neither of them had any particularly good ideas remaining about how to do so.

"I believe there is a logical solution to this difference of opinions," Spock stated, as McCoy fumed across the counter. "There are two differing opinions, and two of us as well. Your specialty is in medicine, making you the best suited to consider other medically viable options. I am more familiar with physics, however, in addition to standard chemistry, and am thus the best suited to examine ways of altering an existing material to become more effective."

"So you go your way, I go mine?" McCoy grumbled. "Why do I even have a lab assistant, if all he wants to do is waste time on things that don't work?"

"The records from the Fabrini database stated that the cure had a recovery rate of one hundred percent," Spock retorted.

"That was centuries ago," McCoy shot back. "For all we know, the virus that causes it mutated in their people, and the resulting chain reaction changed as well."

"There were other illnesses profiled in the pertinent file in the Fabrini database as well, with other cures. I observed upon review, and confirmed via my own simulations, that the cures documented in the section of the database which gave us the xenopolycythemia cure were all similarly unstable compounds. The logical conclusion is that it is possible to stabilize these compounds."

"Or it was. Those databases go back to their days on their original planet," McCoy pointed out. "Maybe there was something about their sun, like that Haberite situation you mentioned, and none of the cures in that section would work anymore if they tried them now."

"Some of the ailments described are common across civilizations," Spock noted. "I find it highly unlikely that there had not been a single case of leukemia among the Fabrini since the Yonada departed their world. Since that cure was also described as one hundred percent effective-"

"A long time ago," McCoy interrupted. "Maybe after the Yonada launched, it stopped working too, and they now use another treatment they developed."

"It is possible," Spock acknowledged. "The only way for us to know would be to contact them and ask."

"Good luck with that," McCoy muttered. "They had no external communications, remember? They thought they were living on a planet, not inside a ship. There was no need for external communications."

"Dr. McCoy," Spock began. "I cannot help but notice that you are becoming increasingly agitated regarding my intentions to pursue the present course of our research, even when I have stated that I do not object to you changing the focus of yours. Is there a reason why you are opposed to my continued attempts at refining the Fabrini's documented cure?"

McCoy hesitated; he didn't want to admit it, but he'd been cautiously taking stock for the last little while. He knew he had to say it, or it would just get worse. "...Yeah, I do. Because I don't think I'm going to be able to continue _my_ research. I need to get to sickbay, Spock, and it would be safer if I had your help."

Spock paused only long enough to raise an eyebrow before he nodded and stood. No questions, no worried exclamations... Thank goodness for Vulcan unemotionalism, McCoy thought. For once. "Are you experiencing symptoms?" Spock asked, rounding the end of the table to offer assistance.

"I started noticing a little numbness in my left leg an hour ago," McCoy explained, accepting Spock's arm and pulling himself up. "Nothing too unusual, I've had this tingling sensation constantly for weeks - but it's worse now, and tender to the touch. Plus, I can tell even through my clothes that it's swelling. Pretty standard for deep vein thrombosis, and blood clots are pretty standard for advanced stages of xenopolycythemia."

"And potentially deadly if not treated at once," Spock continued, helping him hobble carefully towards the door, avoiding putting much weight on the left leg.

"Exactly." McCoy wasn't afraid of dying today - he knew in advance to watch for the warning signs, and had caught it immediately. It would be easy to break that clot up even if it started traveling before they reached sickbay. Imminent death had nothing to do with why he was filled with dread.

Sure enough, it was taken care of within a couple minutes of his arrival at sickbay, and he knew what Geoff was going to say even if he _was_ looking warily between McCoy and Spock. "You're not going to like my recommendation," M'Benga told McCoy.

"No, I'm sure I won't," McCoy agreed with a sigh.

"Strict bedrest," said M'Benga. "Motion therapy, of course, but otherwise legs elevated, with minimal periods of being upright when required. I'm sorry, Leonard."

"That's exactly what I'd have told a patient who came in in my condition," McCoy muttered. "So don't worry about it."

"How long will Dr. McCoy require bedrest?" Spock asked.

"That's exactly the problem," M'Benga told him. "If this was a singular issue, I would suggest taking it easy for a week or two, doing therapeutic exercises to improve blood flow, using compression. Unfortunately, this is a direct effect of his xenopolycythemia - it's not a question of whether it will recur, but when. Regular exercise won't prevent it, and the risk will only increase as more time passes."

"And there is no medication that might be used to minimize that risk?"

"Once again, it's xenopolycythemia," McCoy told Spock. "Standard treatment is useless at best, counterproductive at worst."

"In a case of xenopolycythemia," M'Benga explained, "the body has been fooled into believing that the current abnormal state is in fact entirely normal. Administering anticoagulants simply causes the body to work harder to correct the unnatural thinness of the blood, and the patient's condition may go downhill even more rapidly."

Spock looked back to McCoy, and McCoy wasn't fooled a bit by that seemingly blank expression. "My time in the labs just ran out," he confirmed reluctantly. "It's going to all be on you. So you'd better think _long and hard_ about what angle your research is going to take, Spock."

Spock thought for a moment, and then shook his head. "Dr. McCoy, I agreed to be your assistant," he stated. "I am to assist you in any way which you require. This includes assisting you in getting to and from the laboratories, and finding a solution that will allow you to continue your research for as long as possible."

McCoy was dubious, but if Spock was really serious... "What did you have in mind?"

"Dr. M'Benga," Spock began, "I assume that the Enterprise has temporary triage supplies on hand."

"Of course," M'Benga replied, mild curiosity showing in the slight rise of his eyebrows.

Half an hour later, they were both back in the laboratory, Spock having set up a cot beside the counter where they had been conducting their experiments. "Now, doctor," he asked McCoy after helping him onto it, adjusting it so that McCoy could see the information on the terminal's screen, "how would you have me proceed?"

He was so perfectly matter-of-fact about the whole thing, McCoy thought. There was a problem, so Spock found a solution, unconventional as it may have been. He might have thanked Spock, but he knew from experience Spock would never admit to having gone out of his way for McCoy's sake. Not any more than McCoy would have admitted just how incredibly fond of Spock he felt at the moment.

"I was thinking I'd have another look at the possibility of gene therapy," was all McCoy said. "It's a rare genetic mutation that allows xenopolycythemia to develop in the first place, and no one's ever been able to fix that little quirk - but maybe there's something in that area that can _un-_ develop it once it's hit."

Spock called up a genetic profile on the terminal's screen. "Where precisely is the mutation located?"

McCoy reached out to show him, zooming in on the relevant portion of the screen, and their work continued - together this time, instead of merely simultaneous.

\---

Spock was still not convinced that McCoy's choice to explore other options was the correct one. The new avenue of research was meeting with little more success than the Fabrini cure, and though occasionally they seemed to be making headway, their progress was exceptionally slow. The pace itself did not bother Spock, who knew quite well that research often required patience. He was, however, concerned that the experiments might outlast the one whose life they were attempting to protect.

McCoy was having to medicate himself more frequently, and even with the increase, Spock often turned to find McCoy settled back against his pillows, eyes closed against the dizziness or the headache. McCoy had lost more weight, suffered tremors in his fingers, and the low-grade fever occasionally spiked. There had been no further blood clots in the last two weeks, at least, for which Spock was grateful; there would have been nothing more they could do to prevent them but to restrict McCoy entirely to sickbay for observation, and that would have left Spock quite lost. Though he had told McCoy that he would assist him with the genetics research, they had reached a point beyond the reach of Spock's overview of medical science. What McCoy could divine from experience and instinct was reduced to no more than trial and error once Spock was alone.

One side effect to McCoy's decreased ability for labwork, however, was that as he was unable to progress much further with their current research in McCoy's absence, Spock had little to do but return to the possibility of the Fabrini cure. Although he had no further ideas, he read over the section detailing their cure for xenopolycythemia and considered what they might have been missing.

One of the problems, Spock was pondering late one afternoon, after he had helped McCoy back to his quarters, was that they had not copied the entirety of the Fabrini's archives onto the Enterprise's computers. Although the ship's computer was vast, so was the Fabrini's; they had copied only certain relevant portions, and that had included the file regarding xenopolycythemia and similar disorders. It was possible that he was missing some sort of context.

After having considered the ramifications, he went to see Jim, and found the captain sparring with a junior security officer in the fitness center. "May I have a word with you, captain?" Spock inquired, once Jim had handily defeated the younger man.

"Of course," Jim replied, offering the junior officer a hand up as he gave Spock a curious look. "I'd thought you'd be down in the labs with Bones at this hour."

"Ordinarily I would," said Spock. "He has begun to show signs of exhaustion earlier and earlier as our experiments have worn on. I helped him to his quarters for rest an hour and twenty-seven minutes past."

Though physical exertion often left Jim appearing brighter, more alert and optimistic, this time Jim lowered his eyes, his shoulders sagging a bit as he reached for a towel. "That doesn't sound good."

"I could not say how much time he has remaining," Spock said. "That is why I wanted to speak with you - I have a request to make."

"If it's for Bones," Jim told him, "anything at all."

Jim was as good as his word, and once he'd dressed, he returned to the bridge to give the order. As for Spock, he headed for McCoy's quarters, knowing that even if McCoy was physically exhausted, his mind was still eager for more information. Now that he had rested for some time, he might be awake enough to appreciate the news.

Though McCoy's health had seemed no worse than usual when Spock had left him, the lack of response when Spock requested entry was a legitimate cause for concern. "Dr. McCoy, I am coming in," he said, raising his voice after having buzzed again. When there was no immediate objection, he did so.

The bed was unmade, indicating that McCoy had been resting as intended, and Spock followed the folds of the sheets, which had fallen to the floor between the bed and the desk, where McCoy now appeared to be lying among them. Spock knelt beside him at once and began to untangle McCoy, who was struggling weakly to free himself from the sheets. "Dr. McCoy?" he inquired, rolling the doctor over onto his back.

"You," McCoy mumbled. He stared up at Spock, not quite focusing his eyes, and speaking from the corner of his mouth. "I know you. Can'think of your name... Need help."

"Please lie still," Spock told him, pushing the sheets aside and rolling McCoy into the recovery position. "I will call for help."

"Yeh..." McCoy's right hand twitched beneath him, but it was his left hand that rose to rub at his head. Spock took the pillow from McCoy's bed, placing it behind the doctor to prop him on his side, and stood to use the desktop terminal to call sickbay.

"First officer Spock requesting immediate medical assistance in Dr. McCoy's quarters," he began.

"Chapel speaking," Chapel's voice responded at once. "We'll be there as fast as we can - what's the emergency?"

"Dr. McCoy is disoriented, confused, and seems to have limited mobility. Given his existing condition and the symptoms I have observed, I suspect he is having a stroke."

"I'll notify Dr. M'Benga," Chapel told him. "Just keep him still and calm, as much as you can, until we get there."

"I will - Spock out." Immediately he changed to the intercom. "First officer Spock calling Captain Kirk."

The captain picked up at once. "Kirk here. What is it, Spock?"

"Dr. McCoy's condition has worsened," Spock informed him. "Medical personnel are on their way; I thought that I should inform you."

Spock heard Jim curse softly under his breath. "Thanks. Where are you?"

"Currently we are in Dr. McCoy's quarters. If you wish to join us, I would suggest that you meet us in sickbay."

"I'll be there. Spock, how bad is it?"

"As of yet, I do not know," Spock acknowledged. "He is having some sort of episode, but I would wait for Dr. M'Benga's diagnosis before I could say for certain how serious it may be."

"All right, I'll see you both shortly. Kirk out."

Having ended the transmission, Spock knelt beside McCoy again, looking him over more carefully.

"Hurts..." McCoy mumbled, still clutching at his head awkwardly with one hand. "Dunno... what's goin' on..."

"Please remain calm," Spock told him, reaching out to take his hand. Even the casual contact revealed a sense of confusion, and fear beneath it. Spock squeezed the doctor's hand lightly between his. "Although you do not know my name, you do know me," he murmured, "and I am here."

McCoy sighed faintly, and did appear to relax somewhat. "Don'understand," he mumbled.

Moments later, Dr. M'Benga and Nurse Chapel arrived, along with two orderlies who were entirely superfluous, as Spock could easily lift Dr. McCoy to the gurney himself. Perhaps even a single one of the human orderlies could have managed, Spock thought, for Dr. McCoy had lost such a great deal of weight. The difference seemed, somehow, to be more obvious at the moment, with McCoy quiet and helpless.

On their way to sickbay, M'Benga began the examination as Spock detailed for Chapel how he had found McCoy and his observations since. They had only just moved McCoy onto a biobed when the captain arrived, and Jim's eyes widened at the sight of McCoy lying there, surrounded by medical personnel. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded, coming to Spock's side.

"Just as Spock surmised, Dr. McCoy suffered a stroke," M'Benga said somewhat distractedly, as he prepared a hypospray. "I'll spare you the technical details and get to the point - this particular type of stroke wouldn't be difficult to treat, though the patient may have some lingering problems with his fine motor skills, correctable by a week or two of followup therapy. In itself, this is not life-threatening."

"But there's the xenopolycythemia," Jim finished.

"Yes, precisely. This is likely to be only the first of many such incidents." M'Benga paused, and addressed the captain and Spock directly, lowering his voice. "If he suffers several of them in close succession, it may result in irreparable damage. This is unfortunately one of the ways in which xenopolycythemia proves fatal. However," he said more firmly, "I do not intend to let Leonard die today."

M'Benga returned to the biobed, and Spock and Jim followed. Jim shot a distraught look at Spock, and Spock merely met his eyes, giving him a subtle, reassuring nod. If grief was to come, Jim would not suffer his alone.

"I know you too," McCoy mumbled, squinting in lopsided fashion at Jim as the medication was administered. "...Who are you? Can't remember..."

"It's Jim," Jim told him softly. "Jim Kirk. Do you know where you are? Do you know who this is?" he asked, reaching over to touch Spock's arm.

McCoy tilted his head to look at Spock. "I know'im. That's... He's..." McCoy's voice trailed off as he tried to focus. "...Damn Vulcan. 'S all I got."

Spock could not bring himself to pretend offense, even when Jim smiled. "Close enough."

Dr. M'Benga had located the blockage quickly, and Jim and Spock were asked to stand back as he began pulse therapy to clear it. Neither were inclined to go far, and remained waiting in the next room until M'Benga returned, nearly half an hour later, to inform them that after some corrective work, McCoy's condition was improving. "He's going to be a little groggy, and he's going to need that followup in the days ahead, but the prognosis is good - except, of course, for the likelihood of recurrence." At this, M'Benga's expression turned somewhat regretful. "There are very few preventative options."

"Are there _any_ preventative options?" asked Kirk.

"All we can do is cut down on any risk factors beyond the xenopolycythemia," M'Benga replied. "No emotional stress or physical exertion, for instance."

"No emotional stress..." Kirk shook his head. "Considering what he's going through, that's a tall order, doctor."

"It is," M'Benga admitted. "We did give him a sedative to keep him from becoming more agitated while we were treating him."

"But you can't just _drug_ a man into complacency," said Kirk, frowning. "Not when his life is at stake."

"I tend to agree," M'Benga said. "But given the struggle ahead of him, I thought it only fair to offer him that option, should he choose it for himself."

"He won't," Kirk said firmly. "Not Bones."

Spock agreed - McCoy had always been all too willing to accept the drawbacks of emotions in return for the alleged benefits - and thus he was more concerned about what else M'Benga had suggested. "May I assume, then, that Dr. McCoy is no longer permitted to walk to and from the laboratories?"

"I'd strongly recommend against it. In fact, I'd prefer he be kept on strict bedrest - ideally in sickbay, so we can know immediately if a similar issue develops."

"He's not going to want to cooperate with that either," Kirk muttered, and then abruptly looked to Spock. "Did you tell him yet?"

"I had entered his quarters to inform him when I found him on the floor," Spock replied. "Since then, we have been occupied with other concerns."

"That's something of an understatement," Kirk remarked. "Dr. M'Benga - just how recovered is he?"

"He's awake and recognizing people again," M'Benga replied. "As I said, it'll take some time to get fine motor control back on the right side of his body, and he's still under the partial influence of the sedative, but he's in good enough condition for visitors, if that's what you're asking."

Jim gave Spock a small smile. "Maybe we can relieve some emotional stress the non-medical way by giving him some good news?"

"Perhaps." Secretly, Spock was not certain that it would not cause Dr. McCoy _further_ emotional stress to explain his intentions. It was just as well that the sedative had not entirely worn off.

McCoy was lying back almost flat against the pillows when they entered. The tired, slightly sheepish smile he gave them was still a bit lopsided. "Jim... Spock," he mumbled, with the southern drawl that only seemed to emerge when he was particularly exhausted or relaxed. "Good to see you - both of you at the same time, in fact. I could only see one at a time before..." He started to lift his right hand, but it rose only a short ways, trembling. "Like there was a hand over half my face."

"I'm glad to hear you're doing better," Jim said, taking the lifted hand and squeezing it. He smirked slightly. "And I'm sure Spock is glad to hear that you remember his name this time. Do you remember what you said earlier?"

McCoy sniffed. "Unfortunately. You're never gonna let me live that one down, are you?" Almost immediately, he realized what he'd said, and his smile lapsed. "Yeah, guess not."

"Bones..." Jim looked pained. "It's not over yet."

"Indeed," Spock put in. "I have not yet conceded. When I found you in your quarters, in fact, I had come to inform you that I had requested a change of course for the Enterprise, so that it may intercept the Yonada, and I may further examine the Fabrini's databases."

McCoy's eyes widened slightly, then closed in exhaustion. "...Spock... you didn't have to go and do that."

"You also requested a change of course on my behalf," Spock reasoned, "when my life was in danger due to the pon farr."

"And if I defied orders for him, I'll defy orders for you," Jim told McCoy. "Fortunately, anything that was on our agenda this time was easily rescheduled."

"No, I mean..." McCoy mumbled. "What's the point? I'm glad to have friends like you two... who'll put themselves out like this... but it's no use."

"If you are to remain on bedrest, my own ability to conduct medical testing has been greatly diminished," Spock pointed out. "Our best chance for success is to return to the Fabrini method."

"Look, I'll put it plainly," McCoy told them. "I'm not going to make it. Not when it's already gotten this bad... and it's just going to get worse."

"Maybe it will," Jim said firmly. "And then it'll get better. We're going to find a way."

McCoy managed to shake his head slightly, then rested it back against the pillows. "Jim, it's a disease. Finding a way to defeat a disease, that's my department, not yours. An' just look at me..."

"I intend to be looking at you for quite some time yet," Jim informed him. "You just relax... Spock and I will take care of it."

McCoy took a deep breath, almost as if he were drawing in strength. "Jim... there _is_ something I want you to take care of for me."

"What is it?"

"In my quarters, top drawer of the desk," McCoy murmured. "There's a yellow disk there... it's been there for awhile. I recorded a message awhile back for Joanna - didn't want to wait until I was as bad off as all this, didn't want her to remember me that way..."

"Bones..."

Jim's face held an expression of utter dismay. Spock did not understand. "Joanna?" he asked.

"My daughter," McCoy replied.

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I was not aware you had a daughter," he admitted.

"Don't talk about it much... not anybody's business," McCoy muttered. "Anyway... been writin' to her a lot lately, since this started... didn't want to tell her and make her worry, though, not if we were going to be able to fix it."

"We _will_ ," Jim insisted.

"Let's not be unrealistic here," said McCoy. "The odds-"

"Damn the odds," Jim told him. "I'm not giving up, neither are you."

McCoy sighed and opened his eyes again, turning his head away from Jim, to another. "...If you won't do it, Spock will. Won't you?"

Jim was giving him a wounded look, but this had nothing to do with Jim or his wishes; Spock nodded, remaining focused on McCoy. "I will send the message," he agreed solemnly.

"Spock..."

"It does not mean that I have given up," Spock told Jim. "There is still a chance for success, as long as life continues, and I intend to pursue the matter until no chance remains. Regardless, I will respect the doctor's wishes."

"And you probably won't even peek, either." McCoy sighed deeply again, settling back. "I knew I could count on you to be reasonable."

"Yes, despite your repeated attempts at making me less reasonable," Spock replied, and the lopsided smile he received seemed like a reward.

McCoy was exhausted, in need of rest, so Spock and Jim did not stay much longer. When Spock left, Jim accompanied him, following Spock to McCoy's quarters.

"...I would have sent it for him," Jim admitted, glancing at Spock on their way down the corridor. "I'd do anything he asked of me. I just didn't want to... to let him think I..."

"I understand," Spock assured him. "I am certain that Dr. McCoy understood as well."

The disk was just where McCoy had said it would be, and contained a personal comm-code as well as brief instructions and a larger file. As McCoy had remarked, Spock had no inclination to "peek", despite Jim's murmured curiosity.

"His correspondence with his daughter does not pertain to us," Spock observed. And then, a moment later, "How old is Joanna?"

"Not sure exactly... late teens, early twenties by now," Jim replied. "He showed me a picture of her graduation... lovely girl."

Spock nodded, and silently sent the transmission on its way with the press of a button. Jim's hand came to rest on his arm, and Spock made no move to dislodge it.

"...Chekov estimated it'll take at least fourteen days to intercept the Yonada," Jim said finally.

"It has been traveling in one direction consistently, and will continue to do so, as we are unable to reach them through means other than beaming aboard," Spock replied with a small nod. "Meanwhile, we have traveled a great distance in another direction."

"Do you think he'll be able to hold on?"

Spock's hand rested lightly atop Jim's. "It is not impossible," was the most encouraging answer he could give.


	6. Chapter 6

If not for the swing terminal beside the biobed, McCoy would have had no way of knowing how much time was passing. Not that he should have been paying attention in the first place; he was supposed to be resting and recuperating. But every single damn person involved knew he wasn't going to recuperate, no matter how much rest or therapy or medication he got.

But he wasn't giving up. Especially not when Spock and Jim had gone to the trouble they'd gone to, dropping everything to head back to the Yonada. He helped Spock with the research the best he could from his bed, examining the equations and diagrams and slides Spock saved to the filegroup, then sending back his thoughts and suggestions.

Jim was there frequently, conversing and assisting - and, McCoy suspected, gauging the rate of his decline. With the Enterprise passing through known space, Jim wasn't as necessary on the bridge, and he couldn't do much for Spock in the labs. In sickbay, however, he could be McCoy's hands and his mouth, when McCoy had been active too long - or what passed as active - or the medication was affecting him too badly.

A couple of days after the stroke, McCoy was trying to explain to Jim what he was trying to get across to Spock, and suddenly Spock was right there. Both of them were staring down at him with concern, and McCoy's mouth wasn't working, he couldn't form the words to ask why, or how Spock had gotten there so fast. It took him a little while before he managed to work out that he hadn't. That was only the first of his blackouts, and they began to increase in frequency as the days passed.

A few days later, McCoy recognized that Jim's sudden absence meant he must have had another, but Jim and Spock just weren't there when he woke up. And he didn't need them to be, it wasn't like that, but he still couldn't help but feel a little disappointed - until they came by the next morning, and he asked. They _had_ been there when he woke up, they said. He just couldn't remember.

And then came the day when Spock started sending gibberish to him in the middle of a series of questions about the current experiments, and no matter how times McCoy tried to ask what the hell he was on about, Spock just sent back more gibberish. And then Spock showed up in sickbay, M'Benga accompanying him and speaking more nonsense, and McCoy realized what the problem was just as he lost consciousness again. When he came out of it, he still had to go over everything that was said to him a few times, trying to find the real words that the nonsense everyone was saying kind of sounded like, until M'Benga managed to stimulate just the right part of his brain and the aphasia started to resolve.

It was like living in a dream, McCoy thought one evening, lying there in the biobed. There were other symptoms, more painful or physically debilitating, but the neurological damage was the most disruptive. The laws of space and time no longer applied, he couldn't move, things that made no sense seemed perfectly sensible, huge chunks of memory came and went... But this dream was a nightmare, and childish as it was, he was afraid to fall asleep. A waking nightmare was better than nothing at all.

Especially since one memory that stayed with him, occasionally twisting but always present, was the memory of his father. The initial guilt and grief had been bad enough; the second wave, when they found a cure only days after the elder McCoy's burial, had been nearly enough to make his son follow him. Spock and Jim wouldn't have the same degree of guilt he'd been carrying around, but the knowledge that they might have saved him if they'd just been a little faster, if McCoy had been able to hold out just a little longer, was nothing he'd want to put them through.

But the memory of his father's last days, filled with pain and the final quiet, pleading request, haunted McCoy to the point where he finally made the effort to speak to M'Benga, when he came in the morning to administer another round of medication. "Geoff," he whispered. "If it can't be done... it can't be done. Don't try too hard."

M'Benga looked down at him soberly. "I'm sure many would say that we're already trying too hard," he observed. "Having said that, I will _continue_ to try too hard... but no harder. I promise."

McCoy wasn't sure if he managed to smile or not, but he saw M'Benga's hand squeeze his own, even if he couldn't feel it through the haze of disorientation and a fresh hypo.

\---

Spock was not sleeping either, and had not slept for a week. As a Vulcan, sleep was a luxury he could live without, and there was currently enough reason to do so. His time was best spent in research, so that whenever Dr. McCoy was conscious and coherent, Spock could ask multiple questions at once, covering multiple avenues of investigation to be explored during the increasing amount of time when McCoy was not available.

After the bout of aphasia, however, Spock had become less certain about taking McCoy's answers at face value. At times, he did not entirely understand what McCoy said, and it was possible that what McCoy said was not what he meant. Dr. M'Benga had cautioned him as well, noting that Dr. McCoy was not only heavily medicated, but also suffering serious internal injuries, some of them in the brain. His judgment was not what it once might have been.

Even so, Spock had little choice. It was against his nature to do nothing when there were other options, particularly when lives were at stake - and particularly when the life at stake was McCoy's. Spock had, of course, lost officers with whom he had served, and although it was never without regret, their loss was acceptable, as death was a known risk of service. Dr. McCoy, however, was unique among the ranks of Starfleet in his relation to Spock; others may have been similarly brilliant, talented, and selfless, but none other challenged him in the same manner. Although said manner was ostensibly irritating under most circumstances, somehow the loss of Dr. McCoy was, in Spock's mind, entirely unacceptable.

Spock knew it was illogical to think in such a way; he was half Vulcan, and McCoy was human. Aside from some misfortune striking him early, he would undoubtedly find himself without the doctor's company someday, and Jim's as well. He must eventually accept the inevitable. But in the meantime, it was only logical to do what he could to keep that day somewhere in the distant future.

As for the captain, he was at least getting rest, if perhaps not an equal amount of sleep. He'd admitted to lying awake at night, worrying, and he'd ordered sickbay to let him know immediately of any change in McCoy's condition, which had led to several trips to sickbay in the middle of the night, just so that he could be there. The captain made up for the disruptions during the day, leaving a long, uneventful trip in the hands of other experienced officers when his specific expertise was not needed.

Jim was awake early, though, as the swish of the laboratory door caused Spock to look over his shoulder. "Captain," he greeted Jim with a nod.

Jim gave Spock a smile, but looked weary as he came to glance over Spock's work. "Still no luck?"

"None," Spock acknowledged. "However, assuming that you have not come to inform me that our navigator's estimates were incorrect, I believe I shall soon be changing the focus of my research."

Jim nodded. "As long as Chekov plotted the courses correctly - and of course he did, it's Chekov - we should catch up with the Yonada in a few hours." He straightened, rolling his shoulders. "...I couldn't sleep."

"And I had no need." Spock closed the files he was currently working on, and opened the files from the Fabrini's supercomputer again. "I have, of course, formulated a planned course of action."

"Of course."

"I believe that the file which related the cure for xenopolycythemia, among other illnesses, may have been in essence a chapter of a book," Spock continued. "Although it has been some time, I recall the section of the computer's database in which I observed the file. I intend to examine the other files in that section, in hopes of determining if there is another aspect to the treatments contained therein."

"Good idea," Jim agreed, then shrugged. "Though I'll take any ideas at all at this point."

"Likewise; it was simply a matter of choosing a starting point. I have other options to consider, should the files reveal nothing of interest."

"It's comforting to hear you say it," Jim remarked. "Anything I can help with?"

"As you have put aside other objectives in favor of finding a cure for Dr. McCoy, perhaps I could request some personnel," Spock suggested. "My own department, with your permission, would be well-equipped to take samples of the air, soil, and other environmental factors aboard the Yonada. Although there is no guarantee that the environment aboard the ship is identical to the environment of the Fabrini's planet of origin, it could hold some necessary similarity."

"Take whoever you want," Jim told him.

"I would also welcome assistance from ops, in arranging for a larger transfer from the Fabrini database to our own computer," Spock continued. "Having already made a significant intrusion into their culture, I would prefer to interfere with their doings as little as possible. We will need room allocated for the file storage, on a long-term temporary basis."

"I'll tell Scotty to get on it."

"Jim," Spock added. "I would not object to another set of eyes. The search for an answer will go much faster if both of us are looking."

Jim nodded. "I'll admit, I'm not sure what I'd be looking for in all those files."

"Some kind of process, I suspect, which is to be applied to all the cures contained therein," Spock told him. "Perhaps a statement regarding the way in which they are created, or a method of refinement. Anything that seems to be relevant to the cures whose formulas are described in the file we received. Or, in fact, anything at all which may strike you as interesting - though I expect that there will be little of interest to you in what amounts to a medical encyclopedia."

"It doesn't matter if it's interesting," Jim stated. "This is a mission - a personal mission rather than an official mission, but still a mission."

Spock nodded. Perhaps, given some of the highly illogical official missions they had managed to complete together, he and Jim would manage to be successful in this one as well.

Then again, they had to acknowledge later, Dr. McCoy had played a significant role in the majority of their successes, whether by his knowledge or his intuition. At the time the Yonada came into view on the Enterprise's long-range sensors, they decided to pay McCoy a visit in sickbay to inform him, and found him even weaker than he had been the night before.

"Pulmonary embolism overnight," Dr. M'Benga told them quietly in the office which had until recently been McCoy's. "The biobed notified us early that he was having difficulty, but the usual treatments are becoming ineffective when faced with the scope of the changes caused by xenopolycythemia, and the backup treatments are too dangerous. I considered calling you as you had requested, but I suspected we would be able to solve the problem eventually - and I believe you have a long day ahead of you."

"We do, but it's all for his sake anyway," said Jim. "How is he now?"

"Exhausted and uncomfortable, but out of immediate danger," replied M'Benga, glancing over at the monitor on the desk. "His biorhythms are slightly irregular even for his condition, which normally would be an indication of consciousness, but they've been irregular ever since; he may be asleep."

"If so, we'll let him rest," Jim assured M'Benga. "But if he's awake, I'd like to let him know we're about to get started."

McCoy, as it happened, was semi-conscious - too uncomfortable to fall asleep, he said, but fading out from time to time, nearly delirious from the fatigue, stress, and medications.

"This is all going to be over soon," Jim told him, taking his hand.

"One way or another," McCoy muttered.

Jim ignored it. "Spock and I are going to beam over to the Yonada in about an hour. Spock knows what we're looking for - maybe it won't take long for us to find it."

"Maybe." McCoy shifted restlessly in the bed. "You two... just in case, I want to say thanks. For everything you've done."

"Save the thanks for later," Jim told him with a fond smile.

But McCoy shook his head. "Just in case," he repeated. "I don't want to not..." His eyes lost focus for a moment, and he blinked, pulling himself together again. "If I don't make it... I don't want you to feel like you-"

"Bones," Jim told him. "We know."

McCoy blinked again, trying his best to look seriously at Jim. "Jim," he murmured. "...You're the best friend I've ever had. Best friend anyone's ever had, or ever could."

Spock expected Jim to protest this sort of talk again, but instead Jim simply gazed down seriously at McCoy. "Thank you," he replied softly. "I still don't know what I'd do without you. ...Don't make me find out."

McCoy's eyes closed for a moment, then opened again to regard Spock. "Spock..." he began. "Of all the smug... insufferable _assholes_ I've met in my life..." One corner of his mouth lifted just a little. "...You're my favorite."

Spock hesitated. If, as McCoy seemed to believe, this was their farewell, he found himself touched and intrigued by the typically illogical juxtaposition of affection and antagonism, characteristic of McCoy alone, and perhaps he should respond honestly.

But then, McCoy had always liked it best when he responded in kind. "Why, thank you, doctor," Spock replied, raising an eyebrow. "However, if my current project is as successful as I expect, I may become far more smug and insufferable. I look forward to showing you the results of my efforts."

"Dear Lord, that's horrifying." McCoy rolled his eyes, and that corner of his mouth lifted just a bit further, as did Jim's. "Enough to make me hope you fail."

Spock shook his head slightly, placing the tips of his fingers upon the back of McCoy's palm. "I have no intention of failure," he stated.

\---

They had no idea what sort of reception to expect upon boarding the Yonada this time. Natira had pardoned their crimes, of course, but they were once more arriving unannounced, and the first time, the surprise had not been welcome. They had more useful coordinates now, however; they could be beamed directly into the settlement, where any reaction would be immediate and obvious.

Sure enough, their arrival within the halls was met with shock from the initial onlookers, who stared in amazement - but then, there was one man who remembered Kirk and Spock, though they had last been aboard months ago. His reminder was enough to set the minds of the other observers at ease, and within only a few minutes, they were graced with a familiar presence.

"Kirk, Spock," Natira greeted them warmly, though the fading of her smile was unmistakable as she looked around further. "We welcome you back to Yonada... McCoy did not come with you?"

"No, he's..." Kirk took her offered hand, rubbing it gently. "Natira, we have some bad news - the cure we found in the Yonada's files hasn't worked as well as expected."

"He is still alive," Spock spoke up, seeing her expression of dismay. "However, he is in no condition to visit. We have come on his behalf, in hopes of determining why the cure did not work."

"That is, if we have your permission," Jim added, still holding her hand. "We need to conduct some experiments, and access the computer again - I know, it wasn't supposed to be accessed before the Yonada's arrival, but McCoy doesn't have that long."

"No," she said at once. "No, it is well. I understand now, when I did not before. The Creators were possessed of much wisdom, and if disaster can be averted through that wisdom now, then there is little sense in hiding it. Come," she urged them, reaching out to take Spock's hand as well. "I will accompany you - among the people, it is still a sacred place."

Spock withdrew his hand smoothly. "Although we are grateful for your cooperation," he said, "I must ask that you escort the captain, and a small additional contingent from our ship's crew. As for myself, also with your permission, I would like to lead my own team in gathering samples for a few experiments; they shall not cause a disturbance, nor would they require access to the sacred places."

"Of course, you and your crew are welcome here," she assured them. "You did save my people - and even if not for that, it is for McCoy. Whether we are together or apart, I would have him live a long and happy life."

Jim flashed her an earnest smile, which Spock knew from experience was considered by women to be quite charming. "I wish you _were_ coming with us - you're probably the most generous woman he's ever had in his life. Thank you, Natira."

While Jim called down Mr. Scott, who had set up an array they could use to store a large quantity of files, Spock had a team of his own science officers beam down with equipment standard for documenting new worlds, and orders for analysis. Once he had finished directing them to their respective tasks, he went to the oracle room, only to find the door closed. A motion before the sensors did not open them as it had previously, and so Spock opened his communicator. "Captain, are you and Mr. Scott within the control chamber?"

"We are, Spock - Scotty's established a link," came the response. "Feel free to join us when you're ready."

"I have attempted to do so," Spock reported. "The door to the oracle room, however-"

He was interrupted by the door sliding open, and Natira offered him an apologetic smile, ushering him in quickly before they closed again. "No one else here knows the truth of Yonada," she explained, escorting him to the chamber in the back. "It will be revealed to the people as the Creators intended."

"I understand," Spock told her with a nod. "Our Federation has a similar principle, called the Prime Directive."

Jim looked up from the console as they entered, though Mr. Scott's attention remained intact. "Spock, we wouldn't mind a hand here," Jim suggested. "The Fabrini's medical database is rather... extensive."

"Aye, I'm downloading the lot of it," Scott added. "But if you'd like to identify the most relevant files, we can call those up right away."

"Very well," Spock agreed, looking over the display, following the same steps he had taken before to find the reference.

Even with the three of them reviewing, they had found nothing of use by the time the last of Spock's science team had checked in, stating that they'd gathered the necessary samples and taken the necessary readings. Mr. Scott assured them it wouldn't take much longer to finish transferring the medical files to the array, and since they were occupying Natira's time, they agreed to beam back to the Enterprise once they were done. Spock, on the other hand, could beam back at once to begin examining the samples his team had taken.

Spock had run the standard analyses on much of the data when he was momentarily interrupted by Jim entering the lab. "Captain," Spock greeted him, standing. "I assume you would have called if you had found any information of significance, but nonetheless, I must ask."

"Likewise, I assume you'd have called me if you'd turned up anything," Jim said with a rueful nod.

"The composition of the created world of the Yonada is very similar to the majority of Class M planets," Spock replied, "with only standard deviations in chemical composition, electro-magnetic emissions, and microorganic life forms. However, examination of those deviations may yet yield useful information."

"And we didn't see a thing in those files that suggests there's another step to the process," Jim added. "But Scotty and I aren't science or medical - we might have missed something that you or M'Benga could catch."

"Dr. M'Benga is most useful in sickbay at present," Spock observed, "but I may turn over my experiments to other science staff in favor of reviewing the additional files."

"Are you sure?" Jim asked. "You're the most qualified to run those experiments _and_ review those files - I don't want to take you away from one lead to work on a possible dead end."

"And yet this could be the dead end," Spock reasoned, "and analysis of scientific data, although a skill which requires much knowledge, is fairly straightforward."

"Maybe so, but I still trust you more than I trust anyone else," Jim admitted. "That's not wrong, is it?"

"Not wrong, perhaps, but inefficient." Spock bent down over the terminal, organizing the relevant materials. "I will forward half of the Fabrini's files to Dr. M'Benga, for him to review if he has some free time; although he likely does not need to be told, I will make it clear that his priority is treating patients, including McCoy. I will also assign certain of my staff to cover the experiments and analyses, so that I may review the other half of the files."

Jim nodded slowly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall as he watched. "...I wish there was something more I could do."

"There is something you can do," Spock said, straightening again to look at him. "You can rest. The hour is late, and Dr. McCoy would undoubtedly tell you to go to bed, seeing as you are responsible for the entirety of the Enterprise."

"He would," Jim acknowledged. "But what about you? You're not going to bed yet."

"I am Vulcan," replied Spock. "You are not."

"You're part human too," Jim pointed out, but it was a weak rebuttal; having had his exhaustion pointed out to him, Jim was already yawning. "I suppose, by earlier logic... Bones must still be all right, if we haven't been notified."

Spock nodded. "However, considering the nature of our current mission, I do not believe it would be illogical to ascertain his current condition."

Jim flashed him a tired smile. "Do you think he'd be angry with us, for visiting him instead of sleeping?"

"A great many reasonable things have been known to anger the doctor," Spock pointed out, and that smile returned.

It was Dr. Sanchez on watch at the moment, having relieved M'Benga so that he could sleep himself. According to the doctor, McCoy was sleeping in reasonable comfort at the moment, but he did not believe that the captain and first officer were likely to cause a disturbance.

As Sanchez had said, McCoy was lying unconscious in the biobed, his breathing even but shallow. His skin was flushed, his face so sunken from pain and quick weight loss that in the half-light, he looked almost like another person entirely.

Jim and Spock watched the rise and fall of his chest in silence, until Jim sighed, leaning his head sideways to rest lightly against Spock's shoulder. Spock glanced down, though he could already sense the heavy sorrow that weighed down Jim's spirit, adding to his exhaustion.

Wordlessly, he reached up and simply held Jim's shoulder, until finally Jim stirred, collecting himself, and murmured "Bed." Spock nodded, escorting the captain to his quarters and then returning to his own, where he called up the files and began to read.

\---

As the captain and chief engineer had reported, there seemed to be nothing of note in the most relevant of the Fabrini's files. Spock had gone over them (and received a response from Dr. M'Benga implying that he intended to do likewise), and found no reference to an additional step or factor of any sort, much less one that stabilized the molecular structure of the compound.

By the hour at which he was supposed to report for alpha shift, Spock had turned to reading different medical files, in hopes of finding some clue, presumably at random. A quick message was sent to the captain, with a query, and Jim agreed - since they were presently doing nothing more than keeping pace with the Yonada, in case more contact was required, there was nothing on the bridge which required his presence in particular. Spock thanked the captain, and returned to his study.

Reports came in from his staff throughout the morning, indicating that they had run the tests he had asked, and found nothing. He had found nothing himself a few hours later, when he received a tense transmission from Jim. "Just got a call from M'Benga - Bones is having seizures. I'm going to sickbay."

"I will meet you there," Spock responded, standing at once.

He caught up with Jim sooner than that, however, catching the same turbolift down. "What is the situation?" Spock asked as the doors closed.

"All I know that I haven't already told you is that M'Benga's worried," Jim replied. "He said he was having trouble stopping the seizures, and I could hear it in his voice besides."

Spock could hear it in Jim's voice as well. With that in mind, he opted not to speak again himself until they had arrived.

Sickbay was less frantic than they might have expected, and Dr. M'Benga appeared tired but calm. "We've managed to stabilize him, at least for the moment," he told them. "I couldn't say how long it will last, given his deteriorating condition. I can only assume that the seizures were due to a combination of the fever and the recent brain injury, and those factors aren't going to simply go away."

"Unless we find a cure," Jim stated. "Have you made any progress, Spock?"

"I have not," Spock admitted. "However, I am still reviewing the materials we acquired from the Fabrini."

Jim nodded. "Is he awake, can we see him?"

"He was a few moments ago," M'Benga replied. "However, I will warn you: the episode was exhausting for him, physically and emotionally."

"We'll be careful," Jim assured him.

Perhaps, Spock thought, the warning was not so much for McCoy's sake as for theirs; McCoy's current state was difficult to behold. He was breathless, gasping faintly, one shaky hand gripping the side of the biobed. "Bones," Jim murmured, going to his side at once.

"Jim," McCoy whispered, and his eyes half-opened to look. "And Spock too..." He was obviously in pain, and even appeared to have been crying. Spock had seen the doctor in many uncomfortable situations, but he did not recall having seen the man cry.

Jim seemed to be lost for words, and so Spock spoke. "We have been to the Yonada, and have retrieved their medical files, as well as environmental data."

"Spock, it's all right," McCoy whispered breathlessly. "No use... just let me go."

"I have not yet completed-"

"Let me go," McCoy repeated, his voice tight. "I'm falling apart... can't even feel my own body anymore, 'cept for the pain... what's the sense in this?"

Spock looked to Jim, meeting his stricken expression. It was logical that Jim would be troubled by the suggestion. It was a difficult concept for any emotional being.

And perhaps for Spock as well. "We have not yet exhausted all options," he said. "It would be irresponsible to cease research before completion."

"You can't fix this," McCoy insisted.

"We shall see," said Spock, and left McCoy in the captain's company. As for himself, he had research to finish.

He found that he was somewhat distracted from his research by the unpleasant reaction he had begun to suffer each time a message arrived - an anticipatory tightening of the muscles in his neck and jaw. Without fail, it passed once he had determined the message was not from Jim or Dr. M'Benga.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Spock was peering into a microscope when the door to the laboratory slid open, and the captain entered. "Jim," Spock greeted him, and immediately recognized that he must be becoming fatigued, to address the captain casually when the business may have been official. It was Dr. McCoy's constant monitoring which normally prevented him from becoming too absorbed in his work to notice his own physical deterioration; yet another point towards the doctor's unusual influence on his life.

However fatigued Spock may have been, Jim looked more so. Not grief-stricken, however, or so Spock believed. "How is Dr. McCoy?" Spock inquired.

"He's sick, dying," Jim muttered. "Just like he has been. Natira came aboard to visit him, that cheered him up a little bit, but he had to be heavily medicated after another seizure. Spock, please tell me you have good news."

"Unfortunately, I cannot," replied Spock. "My officers have reported back with the results of the tests I ordered; they have not found anything about the environment aboard the Yonada that may alter the stability of the compound used in the cure. Perhaps the Fabrini homeworld was different in some way."

"So we're out of ideas?" asked Jim.

Spock shook his head, turning back to his equipment. "I have been replicating certain of the tests myself, and combinations thereof. As of yet, the background radiation levels, alone or combined with the particular makeup of the atmosphere inside the Yonada, have had no effect on the compound's stability."

Jim sighed deeply. "Just... keep doing whatever you can think of to do, Spock. Just do it quickly. He's running out of time."

"I am aware of that." Spock paused. "Does Dr. McCoy resent me, for having left abruptly yesterday?"

"Not at all. He understands," Jim said. Stepping up behind Spock, he rested a hand on his shoulder. "He thinks he understands better than you do."

Again Spock shook his head, but faintly, almost imperceptibly. "An interest in the preservation of life is a core facet of Vulcan values."

"The pursuit of lost causes isn't." The hand on Spock's shoulder squeezed. "I try not to take sides, but I'd like you to come out on top in this ideological argument."

"With Dr. McCoy as my adversary, you may rest assured that I will argue my points to the best of my ability," Spock observed. "As I always have."

Jim actually chuckled softly, and clapped Spock on the back as he removed his hand. "Good. I'll let you know if anything changes."

Once Jim had gone, Spock returned to his work beneath the microscope. Unfortunately, the results remained the same, and Spock had nearly exhausted his store of ideas. His only hope, he suspected, was that the samples brought back from the Yonada were too old, that some aspect of the environment had degraded with time. He might have more success with fresher samples.

...Or perhaps, he thought, if time was indeed running out, there might be more efficient ways to spend it than on the collection of new sample material to work with. After a moment's consideration, he stood, heading for the equipment lockers against the far wall, and returned with the appropriate tools to disengage certain of the laboratory equipment from the tables, and adapt their power supplies.

Fifty-three minutes later, Spock beamed to the Yonada again, this time to the apparent surface area as opposed to the settlements. Immediately he began to set up the equipment he had brought along, attaching the portable power sources and stabilizing the mechanisms on the uneven terrain.

It was, Spock acknowledged, a particularly haphazard method of research. Results which could not be reproduced in a secure laboratory setting were suspect, unreliable. They were also, at this point, the only chance they had for Dr. McCoy's survival. McCoy, he thought, would have approved; the doctor himself had engaged in similarly questionable research habits when lives were at stake.

Even so, Spock did not predict success - which was why he was quite surprised when the initial, straightforward trial run of his experimental process went exceedingly well.

He raised an eyebrow; the material he had just replicated, in the open air of the Yonada, did not immediately lose the qualities of the compound he was attempting to replicate. Examination beneath a microscope revealed that the material had, as in Dr. McCoy's initial experiments, bonded with the nitrogen in the atmosphere, or so it had seemed...

Spock examined the results thoroughly, repeated the experiment under slightly different circumstances, and watched through the microscope as the process repeated itself. So _that_ was why the attempts aboard the Enterprise had been unfruitful.

Under ideal circumstances, Spock would have been more comfortable to experiment further, perhaps refine what he was seeing and consider the relative safety, but Dr. McCoy was running out of time. Spock opened his communicator and called the Enterprise sickbay.

Shortly thereafter, Nurse Chapel beamed down with a hypospray as directed, and a security officer as Spock had also requested. "You've got it?" she asked, kneeling beside the synthesizer and peering at the material therein.

"It would seem so," Spock replied. "It also would seem that there was another method to the process after all. I believe I have synthesized enough of the compound; if you would please prepare the hypospray, nurse."

"And it's really going to work this time?"

"If it does not, I suspect there is little else we may do for Dr. McCoy," said Spock, and turned to the security officer. "Time is of the essence; I cannot afford to disassemble this equipment before returning to the Enterprise. Although I expect no trouble, I would like a watch kept over this equipment until I or another returns for it."

"Yes, sir."

"And Nurse Chapel," Spock continued. "Once you have finished the hypospray, I ask that you beam into the settlements, and acquire a blood sample from one of the Fabrini's descendants. This may help me to verify that my hypothesis is correct."

"Yes, sir," she replied. "Should I bring it to sickbay?"

"Precisely." Having distributed tasks, there was one more call to make, and Spock opened his communicator again. "Captain, this is Spock. Are you still with Dr. McCoy?"

"No... I thought that the captain might be expected to check in on the bridge at some point today," came the response, with anxious undertones. "Has something happened?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Spock. "Something may happen shortly, however. I am about to beam up from the Yonada, and I would appreciate you joining me in sickbay."

There was a pause, and Jim's tone changed entirely, from one of concern to one of hope. "You did it?"

"I cannot say for certain, but I may have found the solution to our dilemma. Jim, I would caution you not to assume success," Spock added. "I have not run a full range of tests, and cannot accurately predict whether or not the treatment will be more effective. It will be administered at the discretion of Dr. M'Benga - and McCoy himself, if he is in such a state as to decide for himself."

"I understand that it's an experimental treatment," came Jim's relieved reply. "But you've never let me down when lives are on the line, Spock."

"Let us hope the trend continues," said Spock, taking the prepared hypospray that Chapel offered him. "I am now ready to beam up."

"All right - I'll see you in a few minutes."

Dr. M'Benga was similarly anxious for answers when Spock arrived. "You've managed to get the cure working, Spock?"

"That remains to be seen, doctor, and I would like your advice before testing it on our patient," Spock replied. "The captain is on his way, so that he may also be informed. Is Dr. McCoy awake?"

"No, he's asleep, under sedation - he needed the rest," M'Benga said, ushering Spock into the room where Dr. McCoy had been convalescing since his arrival in sickbay. "I imagine he'd appreciate being woken up for the explanation, though."

Although McCoy was disoriented and uncomfortable, he had regained enough consciousness by the time Jim arrived to recognize Spock, and what Spock was saying. "Y'know what? Just do it," McCoy mumbled. "If it works, great. If it doesn't work, at least you tried. If it goes all wrong..." He sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm ready for this to be over one way or another."

"I would prefer to have a doctor's opinion regarding the safety and potential hazards before injecting a foreign material into your bloodstream," Spock told him. "Whether that doctor is you, or Dr. M'Benga, it does not matter."

"All right..." McCoy groaned. "Then let's get started."

"Very well," Spock said with a nod, as Jim gripped McCoy's arm, offering support. "I had been attempting to recreate the compound described in the Fabrini database within samples of the air inside the Yonada, while recreating the particulars of their electro-magnetic spectrum, so as to duplicate the Yonada's atmosphere as closely as possible."

Spock explained his doubts about the integrity of the samples, and how he had decided to simply conduct the experiments inside the Yonada itself. "As a preliminary test, I attempted to synthesize the compound without having sterilized or otherwise prepared the equipment, in the open air," he said. "And immediately, I observed a difference; it did not seem to become inert as it had when the experiments were performed on the Enterprise, although it did react with the nitrogen in the air. Upon closer examination, I found that there were microscopic organisms contaminating the material, as is nearly always the case when working in a non-sterile environment. However, these organisms had attached themselves to the material, and were somehow reacting with the material themselves - feeding on it, processing the nitrogen, and leaving the other components of the compound behind, in a slightly altered form that would not react to the air."

"So the cure wasn't actually the compound itself," M'Benga spoke up, "but a byproduct of micro-organisms feeding on the compound."

"Of course," McCoy muttered. "So obvious... Why didn't I think of that?"

"Their medical personnel may not even have realized what truly caused this compound to be an effective cure," Spock theorized. "Perhaps that is why they did not explain fully in the files."

"So what's actually in that hypospray," Jim inquired, "is the waste from some kind of... microbe? Is that safe?"

"These same microorganisms were detected in the soil samples by my science staff," said Spock. "Much like many microorganisms, they seemed benign. We are surrounded by microorganisms wherever we go," he observed. "Everything we touch, the air we breathe - even our bodies carry many beneficial bacteria."

"Have you checked to see whether or not the people of the Yonada carry these organisms?" M'Benga asked.

"I asked Nurse Chapel to acquire a blood sample in hopes of determining exactly that."

Jim still looked dubious. "Alien bacteria... I'm not sure I like that idea."

"We are likely carriers ourselves now, having visited the Yonada," Spock pointed out. "I suspect that Dr. McCoy retained some of these microorganisms within his body after our first visit to the Yonada, and that is why the treatment initially seemed to be working - they formed an endosymbiotic relationship, and performed similarly when confronted with the material within his body."

Nurse Chapel returned then, carrying a small vial. "Rather than explaining to a stranger why I needed their blood, I found Natira," she reported, handing the vial over to Spock. "She didn't understand... but she said she'd do anything McCoy needed her to do," Chapel finished, with a little smile at McCoy.

McCoy had been quiet throughout the explanation, his eyes half-closed, but now he drew a deep breath and forced himself to focus. "What I said still stands. There have been stranger discoveries in medicine, Jim - in fact, this one's downright mundane."

"I'm inclined to agree," Dr. M'Benga said, "but I'd like to examine that blood sample first, if you don't mind?"

"Feel free to do so, and cross-reference the material in the hypospray as well," Spock offered, handing the vial and hypospray off to M'Benga as the doctor stood.

Although Jim seemed less than enthusiastic about the solution, he gave McCoy a tight smile. "What about _your_ professional opinion, doctor? Do you consider it safe?"

"Like I said, if you knew the history of medicine, you'd know just how unsurprising this discovery is," McCoy mumbled, shifting restlessly. "As for its safety, I don't know. What I do know is, it's not going to do anything worse to me than the xenopolycythemia."

Jim nodded slowly. "An excellent point."

"My only real concern about it," McCoy continued, "is that... I'm pretty run-down at this point. The treatment was hard enough on my body when it wasn't already falling apart."

"Another excellent point," Spock observed. "We do not know whether the side effects will be the same, more severe, or less severe."

"If you're willing to try it," Jim told McCoy, "we'll be here with you. Spock and I, Nurse Chapel..." He turned his head, looking up at Chapel, who nodded soberly. "Dr. M'Benga... we'll all be here, doing whatever we can to ease you through it."

"If you like," Chapel suggested, "we could sedate you, just in case."

McCoy shook his head immediately. "I've had enough of drifting off to sleep, wondering if each moment of consciousness is going to be my last. Live or die... I want to see it for myself." He turned to Spock, with a grimace that was almost a smile. "Is that illogical, Spock? To leave myself vulnerable to that kind of pain?"

"The pursuit of knowledge, even unto the end," Spock replied, "is quite logical."

"Dammit," McCoy grumbled. "I don't want to die like a Vulcan."

"There is a simple solution to that, doctor," Spock pointed out.

McCoy's smile grew warmer, more genuine. "Well... we'll see how simple it is."

Dr. M'Benga returned only a short time later, his mannerisms much more relaxed than they had been when he left. "It's just as you suspected, Spock," he said. "The descendants of the Fabrini, or at least Natira, do maintain a small measure of these native microorganisms within their own bodies. Since Natira seems to be in good health, I don't believe they're harmful to her people - and after having observed them, I would have assumed them to be completely harmless to humans as well. I have no reservations about proceeding. Except," he added, "for my concern about Dr. McCoy's weakened state."

"We were just discussing that," Chapel spoke up.

"If the alternative is to do nothing, then we must proceed," Spock added.

"Fair enough," M'Benga said with a nod. "Leonard, I believe you've already made your opinion clear on the matter."

"Let's get on with it," McCoy agreed, shifting weakly in the biobed, laying himself out flat. Jim took hold of his hand on one side, holding it tightly, and Spock took hold of the other. The touch allowed him to sense McCoy's exhaustion and pain, the recurrence of the fear that he'd been trying to keep buried.

"Nurse Chapel," M'Benga told her, "in case of a bad reaction, I will need your assistance with the equipment."

"Standing by, sir," she agreed, turning to activate some of the mechanisms close at hand.

McCoy took a deep breath, closing his eyes as M'Benga touched the hypospray to his shoulder. There was the hiss of discharge, and for a moment, no reaction.

Then, Spock felt it, like a tremor through the touch of McCoy's hand. It tightened on his, and McCoy's jaw clenched with the pain, his eyes squeezed shut against it as it spread from the point of access throughout his shoulder and arm - and a splitting ache originating in his head, severe enough to drown out all else.

McCoy choked, his body bucking against the pain. "I was afraid of that - he was already at risk of another seizure without additional physical stress," M'Benga muttered, setting the emptied hypospray aside and taking hold of one of the machines Chapel had readied. "Hold on, Leonard - this is something we _do_ know how to treat..."

Jim and Spock had to move back, giving M'Benga and Chapel room to work, but they didn't go far, waiting through the rush of activity and tense dispensation of instructions and observations. Finally, after watching the biobed readings closely, M'Benga breathed a sigh of relief, turning to them. "He's stable now," he said. "We were able to bring the situation under control quickly this time - but I'd let him rest."

"Thank you," Jim breathed, but his expression sobered. "Does this mean the treatment didn't work?"

"It's likely too soon to tell," M'Benga said, turning back to the biobed and taking up a scanner. "The medication is supposed to require..." He paused, peering at the scanner. "No, it _does_ seem to be working," he corrected himself. "I had thought it was a good sign, that we were able to stabilize him so quickly, but already the readings are normalizing, just a little. His blood pressure has dropped - not to a normal level, but not to a dangerous level either... Nurse Chapel, how does this compare to your observations of the first time the treatment was administered?" he asked, handing over the scanner.

"Oh, this is _much_ better," she said immediately. "The changes were hardly enough to verify a difference at all immediately following the first dose. White blood cell counts are already increasing, too."

Spock looked to McCoy, unconscious on the biobed, and then to Jim. A hopeful smile was beginning to dawn on Jim's face as he met Spock's eyes. " _Spock_ ," he murmured, clearly overjoyed.

"I wouldn't celebrate just yet," M'Benga cautioned them. "The medication requires multiple doses, and as you'll recall, his readings returned nearly to normal last time before worsening. His condition has improved, but he hasn't been cured."

"It's still better news than we've had since this whole thing started," Jim stated, still smiling at Spock. "Any good news at all is reason to celebrate."

"At the very least," Spock acknowledged, "we have reason enough to relax. Celebration should perhaps wait until Dr. McCoy can join us."

"True," Jim agreed. "At the very least, he would provide the best refreshments - unless, ah, you've done some... tidying up here in sickbay," he finished, turning to M'Benga.

"Dr. McCoy was placed only on temporary leave," M'Benga told him, perfectly innocent. "And I assure you, I have had no need whatsoever to open certain cabinets."

The atmosphere in sickbay was much calmer, much more cheerful, while they remained there, waiting. Nurse Chapel checked McCoy's readings every now and then, reporting that they were continuing to improve, though not at such a drastic rate. McCoy was sleeping, reasonably peacefully - and then, a few hours later, he stirred.

At the first beep from the monitor, almost before he'd managed to open his eyes, his bed was abruptly surrounded. "How are you feeling, Bones?" Jim asked, as McCoy blinked up at them all.

McCoy considered for a moment. "...Like I should ask you what I was drinking last night," he groaned, "so I'll know to never touch the stuff again. But you know... that's an improvement."

"It _should_ feel like an improvement," M'Benga informed him, "because your condition has definitely improved."

"Yeah," McCoy said, thoughtful, as he shakily tried to sit up. Chapel assisted him, placing another pillow behind his back, and he nodded. "...Yeah. I do feel better. Still awful, but awful is better than unbearable." He paused, seeming wary of asking the question. "...So. Does this mean...?"

"It helped, but only time will tell if it will be a true cure," said M'Benga. "You have a ways to go - and even if the xenopolycythemia _is_ cured, you have a great deal of rehabilitation ahead of you."

"No kidding, still feel weak as a newborn kitten," McCoy remarked. He slumped back against the pillows, and then met Spock's eyes. "I guess I should thank you, Spock - though I have this sneaking suspicion that if I did, you'd find some way to throw it back in my face."

"On the contrary," said Spock. "I have decided to refrain from provoking you while you are in ill health. When you have recovered more significantly, then perhaps I will resume provocation."

Jim chuckled, and McCoy looked over to him with a brighter grin than any of them had seen from him in weeks. "I'd better get on it, then - if the xenopolycythemia isn't going to finish the job, I might die of pure shock at a lack of sarcasm from Spock." He chuckled as well, but his tone was more serious as he turned to Spock again. "But really... I owe you, Spock. Thank you."

"You do not 'owe me'," Spock told him. "I was given a mission, and I did what I could to succeed in that mission. And now, if you will all excuse me," he added, straightening, "I should continue in my research. There is still much we do not know regarding the microorganisms responsible for this improved treatment, and tests that I would have preferred to run before administering it. Perhaps I will have further information by the time when the next dose is to be administered."

"Bull," said McCoy with a cheerful smile, as Spock turned to go.


	8. Chapter 8

Spock did continue his research, reporting regularly on his findings. As he had suspected, those who had visited the Yonada all carried small amounts of the organisms within or on them - they were incredibly prolific, found on nearly everything Spock examined. As he had also suspected, the seemingly unstable material used in other cures among the Fabrini's medical files were made stable through the same process; it was entirely possible they hadn't been aware of what was happening on a molecular level, or perhaps the organisms were so commonplace as to be beneath their mention. Perhaps they hadn't even intended to bring them aboard the Yonada, but those who entered the ship had brought them along and introduced them to the environment without knowing.

It was curious, though - although the lifespan of the organisms was incredibly short, they seemed to be able to sustain themselves indefinitely once introduced to a suitable environment, such as a human or Fabrini body. This answered the question of whether or not McCoy would have to take supplemental doses containing the organisms throughout the duration of treatment, and after acquiring enough of them to create a self-sustaining culture, they could move on from their position alongside the Yonada... but on the other hand, it raised the question of why McCoy hadn't had the benefit of the organisms' assistance to bring him to full recovery the first time.

A week after having parted ways with the Yonada, McCoy entered the laboratory where Spock was continuing his research, and was greeted with a raised eyebrow. "I'm surprised to see you walking about, doctor," Spock remarked. "You are feeling better?"

"Much," McCoy agreed, though he sought out a seat a short ways from Spock's immediately; it had been awhile since he'd been upright under his own power for longer than a few minutes. "It'll take some time for me to build up my strength again, after all that, but as for how I'm _feeling_? Pretty damn good."

"I had been following Dr. M'Benga's reports regarding the process of treatment," Spock noted. "It did seem as if you were recovering with ease, now that the proper cure is being administered."

And Spock probably had no idea how good it felt to be able to do a simple thing like sit up on his own again, or wave his arm, or get to his feet and walk to the turbolift after so long in a weakened, partially incapacitated state. Even the vague nausea of withdrawal from the more potent medications and the slight residual ache from the treatment the day before were welcome, because it meant he wasn't drugged. "Yeah - Geoff's been working wonders with the rehab, and those little bugs of yours have pretty much gotten rid of all signs of the xenopolycythemia already. I'm honestly wondering why we even have to finish two more rounds."

"I would advise not taking-"

"Of course I'm _going_ to finish, Spock," McCoy stated, exasperated. "Believe me, I don't want to go through that again."

"I would assume not."

"Plus, I called Joanna last night," he added. "She'd been trying to reach me since she got my message... I kind of wish now you'd refused to send it after all, she was so upset. But then, when I told her the good news..."

Spock was back peering through that microscope, as if the conversation - or McCoy's presence itself - was of no importance. It was a far cry from the reaction he'd gotten a little while ago when he'd showed up on the bridge, McCoy thought, but it was typical for Spock to act like he didn't care. Even though McCoy knew better, and in a sense, that was why he'd come looking for Spock.

"By the way, _I've_ been following _your_ research while I've been laid up," said McCoy, in lighter tones. "You've made some 'fascinating' discoveries."

"I am not sure I like you saying that word, particularly in such a way," Spock remarked, not looking up.

McCoy grinned. He'd missed this. "I saw that you'd determined how to wipe out those microorganisms - with a simple decontamination beam."

"Hardly a surprising result," Spock pointed out. "The decontamination chambers are designed to eradicate potentially harmful alien particles acquired on unknown worlds, which these organisms are."

"But we didn't use them after our trip to the Yonada," McCoy reminded him. "We didn't have any need for them - until that mission to 6729e."

"That is correct."

"Meaning," McCoy continued, leaning forward to point at Spock, "the cure might have eventually worked after all, if you hadn't picked up those spores."

Spock did look up then, glancing at McCoy with his usual stoicism. "The thought had crossed my mind."

"So in a way, this was your fault."

"I do not recall _asking_ you to treat my accidental infestation, doctor."

"Get off it, Spock," McCoy told him. "I couldn't _not_ treat you, any more than you could _not_ go on looking for a cure." And now, McCoy thought, they were getting to the point. "But I suppose that was completely different, wasn't it?"

"As a matter of fact, I do see several similarities," said Spock. "It appears that as you would say on Earth, we are 'even'."

"You stubborn bastard," McCoy grumbled. "I don't believe for a second, after all we've been through, that you're keeping score."

"Vulcans have superior memory," Spock told him. "It is not difficult."

"You can't just say it, can you?" said McCoy, ignoring the jibe. "Or are you so deep in denial that you don't even know yourself why you saved my life, even when I told you it was a waste of time and effort? You're not one to waste time and effort, Spock."

"On the contrary, I have been known to carry on conversations with you on many occasions."

"Fine, be that way," McCoy sighed, resting his elbows on the table. "Then why do _you_ think you saved my life? And don't give me that line about Vulcans believing all life is sacred and so on - you're not the only one who holds those beliefs, and even a doctor knows when it's time to give up. You crossed that line."

"And I was successful." Spock turned to face him, speaking more directly. "Had it not occurred to you that I had an interest in proving to you that I too might have excelled in your field, had medicine been my chosen pursuit?"

"So you're saying you wanted to one-up me," McCoy clarified.

"It is one of several viable reasons for me to have continued in my research despite your objections."

"You know what, you can say what you like," McCoy told him. "But I know better. There's only one viable reason that accounts for everything you did for me. Not just the research, not just refusing to give up - but the visits, the way you took my hand, all the other things that had nothing to do with intellect. Maybe you won't ever admit to it, but I still know."

"If you already know, and I will not admit to it," Spock observed, "then _you_ are currently the one wasting time and effort on this conversation."

Their eyes met, fierce blue against impenetrable brown. After a moment, McCoy smiled. "For once, I think you may be right."

"If you would like to do something besides wasting time and effort on conversation," Spock suggested, "perhaps you would like to assist me in my current experiment."

McCoy nodded. "Wouldn't mind being away from sickbay a little longer," he agreed, scooting his chair over. "What are you working on?"

"You had told me at the beginning of our work together that you had attempted to synthesize the compound in a vacuum and a pure O2 environment," Spock replied, moving his chair over so that McCoy could see. "I was curious as to whether or not such environments would cause the behavior of the organisms to deviate in any way."

"You know, I was wondering about that too..."

And Spock had a point. With all the unknowns in the universe, the mysteries that had yet to be solved and curiosities to be discovered - and the arguments that he and Spock would undoubtedly have about them - there was no sense in McCoy spending his time trying to prove something that they both already knew to be true.


End file.
